Chapter 3

In the professional realm, Mr. Bennet had done little while supporting his family with a large but dwindling inheritance, and his observations about his daughters’ indolence were more than a little hypocritical. However, he was not wrong. Indeed, an outsider could be forgiven for wondering what it was that the Bennet sisters did with themselves from day to day and year to year. It wasn’t that they were uneducated: On the contrary, from the ages of three to eighteen, each sister had attended the Seven Hills School, a challenging yet warm coeducational institution where in their younger years they’d memorized songs such as “Fifty Nifty United States” and collaborated—collaboration, at Seven Hills, was paramount—with classmates on massive papier-mâché stegosauruses or triceratops. In later years, they read The Odyssey, helped run the annual Harvest Fair, and went on supplemental summer trips to France and China; throughout, they all played soccer and basketball. The cumulative bill for this progressive and wide-ranging education was $800,000. All five girls had then gone on to private colleges before embarking on what could euphemistically be called non-lucrative careers, though in the case of some sisters, non-lucrative non-careers was a more precise descriptor. Kitty and Lydia had never worked longer than a few months at a time, as desultory nannies or salesgirls in the Abercrombie & Fitch or the Banana Republic in Rookwood Pavilion. Similarly, they had lived under roofs other than their parents’ for only short stretches, experiments in quasi-independence that had always resulted in dramatic fights with formerly close friends, broken leases, and the huffy transport of possessions, via laundry basket and trash bag, back to the Tudor. Primarily what occupied the younger Bennet sisters was eating lunch at Green Dog Café or Teller’s, texting and watching videos on their smartphones, and exercising. About a year before, Kitty and Lydia had embraced CrossFit, the intense strength and conditioning regimen that involved weight lifting, kettle bells, battle ropes, obscure acronyms, the eschewal of most foods other than meat, and a derisive attitude toward the weak and unenlightened masses who still believed that jogging was a sufficient workout and a bagel was an acceptable breakfast. Naturally, all Bennets except Kitty and Lydia were among these masses.

Mary, meanwhile, was pursuing her third online master’s degree, this one in psychology; the earlier ones had been in criminal justice and business administration. The plainest in appearance of the sisters, Mary considered her decision to live with her parents to be evidence of her commitment to the life of the mind over material acquisitions, and also to reflect her aversion to waste, since her childhood room would go empty were she not its occupant. By this logic, Mary’s waste avoidance was truly exemplary, since she hardly decamped from her room from one day to the next and instead sequestered herself with her studies, stayed up late, and slept in. The exception was a standing Tuesday-night excursion, but if asked about this mysterious weekly outing, Mary would bark, “It’s none of your business,” or that’s what she would have said back when her family members still inquired. Also back then, Lydia would have said, “AA meeting? Lesbian book club? Lesbian AA meeting?”

Jane and Liz had always held jobs, but even for them, a certain awareness of the safety net below had allowed the prioritizing of their personal interests over remuneration. Jane was a yoga instructor, a position that might have let her cover her rent in a city such as Cincinnati but did not do so in Manhattan, and certainly not on the Upper West Side, which she had called home for the last fifteen years. While Liz, too, had spent her twenties and thirties in New York, she had for most of them, until a recent move to Brooklyn’s Cobble Hill neighborhood, inhabited dingy walk-ups in the outer boroughs. The exception had been the apartment at Seventy-second and Amsterdam that the sisters had shared shortly after Liz graduated from Barnard College in the late 1990s, just a year after Jane’s graduation from the same school. Though they had gotten along well as roommates, the sisters’ cohabitation had reached its conclusion when Jane became engaged to an affable hedge-fund analyst named Teddy; Mrs. Bennet’s uneasiness with Jane and Teddy living together prior to their marriage was allayed by Teddy’s degree from Cornell and his lucrative job. Alas, Teddy’s dawning awareness of his attraction to other men ultimately precluded a permanent union with Jane, though Jane and her erstwhile fiancé did part on good terms, and once or twice a year, both Liz and Jane would meet Teddy and his toothsome partner, Patrick, for brunch.

Liz had spent her entire professional life working at magazines, having been hired out of college as a fact-checker at a weekly publication known for its incisive coverage of politics and culture. From there, she had jumped to Mascara, a monthly women’s magazine she had subscribed to since the age of fourteen, drawn equally to its feminist stances and its unapologetic embrace of shoes and cosmetics. First she was an assistant editor, then an associate editor, then a features editor; but at the age of thirty-one, realizing that her passion was telling stories rather than editing them, Liz had become Mascara’s writer-at-large, a position she still occupied. Though writing tended to pay less than editing, Liz believed she had a dream job: She traveled regularly and interviewed accomplished and sometimes famous individuals.

Chapter 2

Mrs. Bennet was always the one to say grace at family dinners—she was fond of the Anglican meal prayer—and hardly had the word amen passed her lips that evening when, with uncontainable enthusiasm, she announced, “The Lucases have invited us for a Fourth of July barbecue!”

“What time?” asked Lydia, who at twenty-three was the youngest Bennet. “Because Kitty and I have plans.”

Mary, who was thirty, said, “No fireworks start before dark.”

“We’re invited to a pre-party in Mount Adams,” Kitty said. Kitty was twenty-six, the closest in both age and temperament to Lydia, yet contrary to typical sibling patterns, she both tagged after and was led astray by her younger sister.

“But I haven’t told you who’ll be at the barbecue.” From her end of the long oak kitchen table, Mrs. Bennet beamed. “Chip Bingley!”

“The Eligible crybaby?” Lydia said, and Kitty giggled as Lydia added, “I’ve never seen a woman cry as hard as he did in the season finale.”

“What’s an eligible crybaby?” Jane asked.

“Oh, Jane,” Liz said. “So innocent and unspoiled. You’ve heard of the reality show Eligible, right?”

Jane squinted. “I think so.”

“He was on it a couple years ago. He was the guy being lusted after by twenty-five women.”

“I don’t suppose that any of you can appreciate the terror a man might feel being so outnumbered,” Mr. Bennet said. “I often weep, and there are only six of you.”

“Eligible is degrading to women,” Mary said, and Lydia said, “Of course that’s what you think.”

“But every other season is one woman and twenty-five guys,” Kitty said. “That’s equality.”

“The women humiliate themselves in a way the men don’t,” Mary said. “They’re so desperate.”

“Chip Bingley went to Harvard Medical School,” Mrs. Bennet said. “He’s not one of those vulgar Hollywood types.”

“Mom, his Hollywood vulgarity is the only reason anyone in Cincinnati cares about him,” Liz said.

Jane turned to her sister. “You knew he was here?”

“You didn’t?”

“Which of us are you hoping he’ll go for, Mom?” Lydia asked. “He’s old, right? So I assume Jane.”

“Thanks, Lydia,” Jane said.

“He’s thirty-six,” Mrs. Bennet said. “That would make him suitable for Jane or Liz.”

“Why not for Mary?” Kitty asked.

“He doesn’t seem like Mary’s type,” Mrs. Bennet said.

“Because she’s gay,” Lydia said. “And he’s not a woman.”

Mary glared at Lydia. “First of all, I’m not gay. And even if I were, I’d rather be a lesbian than a sociopath.”

Lydia smirked. “You don’t have to choose.”

“Is everyone listening to this?” Mary turned to her mother, at the foot of the table, then her father, at the head. “There’s something seriously wrong with Lydia.”

“There’s nothing wrong with any of you,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Jane, what’s this vegetable called? It has an unusual flavor.”

“It’s spinach,” Jane said. “I braised it.”

“In point of fact,” Mr. Bennet said, “there’s something wrong with all of you. You’re adults, and you ought to be living on your own.”

“Dad, we came home to take care of you,” Jane said.

“I’m well now. Go back to New York. You too, Lizzy. As the only one who refuses to take a dime and, not coincidentally, the only one with a real job, you’re supposed to be setting an example for your sisters. Instead, they’re pulling you down with them.”

“Jane and Lizzy know how important my luncheon is,” Mrs. Bennet said. “That’s why they’re still here.” The event to which Mrs. Bennet was referring was the annual fundraising luncheon for the Cincinnati Women’s League, scheduled this year for the second Thursday in September. A member of the league since her twenties, Mrs. Bennet was for the first time the luncheon’s planning chair, and, as she often reminded her family members, the enormous pressure and responsibility of the role left her, however lamentably, unavailable to tend to her husband’s recovery. “Now, the Lucases’ barbecue is called for four,” Mrs. Bennet continued. “Lydia and Kitty, that’s plenty of time for you to join us and still get to your party before the fireworks. Helen Lucas is inviting some young people from the hospital besides Chip Bingley, so it’d be a shame for you to miss meeting them.”

“Mom, unlike our sisters, Kitty and I are capable of getting boyfriends on our own,” Lydia said.

Mrs. Bennet looked from her end of the table to her husband’s. “If any of our girls marry doctors, it will meet my needs, yes,” she said to him. “But, Fred, if it gets them out of the house, I daresay it will meet yours, too.”

Part One

Chapter 1

Well before his arrival in Cincinnati, everyone knew that Chip Bingley was looking for a wife. Two years earlier, Chip—graduate of Dartmouth College and Harvard Medical School, scion of the Pennsylvania Bingleys, who in the twentieth century had made their fortune in plumbing fixtures—had, ostensibly with some reluctance, appeared on the juggernaut reality-television show Eligible. Over the course of eight weeks in the fall of 2011, twenty-five single women had lived together in a mansion in Rancho Cucamonga, California, and vied for Chip’s heart: accompanying him on dates to play blackjack in Las Vegas and taste wine at vineyards in Napa Valley, fighting with and besmirching one another in and out of his presence. At the end of each episode, every woman received either a kiss on the lips from him, which meant she would continue to compete, or a kiss on the cheek, which meant she had to return home immediately. In the final episode, with only two women remaining—Kara, a wide-eyed, blond-ringleted twenty-three-year-old former college cheerleader turned second-grade teacher from Jackson, Mississippi, and Marcy, a duplicitous yet alluring brunette twenty-eight-year-old dental hygienist from Morristown, New Jersey—Chip wept profusely and declined to propose marriage to either. They both were extraordinary, he declared, stunning and intelligent and sophisticated, but toward neither did he feel what he termed “a soul connection.” In compliance with FCC regulations, Marcy’s subsequent tirade consisted primarily of bleeped-out words that nevertheless did little to conceal her rage.

“It’s not because he was on that silly show that I want him to meet our girls,” Mrs. Bennet told her husband over breakfast on a morning in late June. The Bennets lived on Grandin Road, in a sprawling eight-bedroom Tudor in Cincinnati’s Hyde Park neighborhood. “I never even saw it. But he went to Harvard Medical School, you know.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” said Mr. Bennet.

“After all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t mind a doctor in the family,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Call that self-serving if you like, but I’d say it’s smart.”

“Self-serving?” Mr. Bennet repeated. “You?”

Five weeks prior, Mr. Bennet had undergone emergency coronary artery bypass surgery; after a not inconsiderable recuperation, it was just in the last few days that his typically sardonic affect had returned.

“Chip Bingley didn’t even want to be on Eligible, but his sister nominated him,” Mrs. Bennet said.

“A reality show isn’t unlike the Nobel Peace Prize, then,” Mr. Bennet said. “In that they both require nominations.”

“I wonder if Chip’s renting or has bought a place,” Mrs. Bennet said. “That would tell us something about how long he plans to stay in Cincinnati.”

Mr. Bennet set down his slice of toast. “Given that this man is a stranger to us, you seem inordinately interested in the details of his life.”

“I’d scarcely say stranger. He’s in the ER at Christ Hospital, which means Dick Lucas must know him. Chip’s very well-spoken, not like those trashy young people who are usually on TV. And very handsome, too.”

“I thought you’d never seen the show.”

“I only caught a few minutes of it, when the girls were watching.” Mrs. Bennet looked peevishly at her husband. “You shouldn’t quarrel with me. It’s bad for your recovery. Anyway, Chip could have had a whole career on TV but chose to return to medicine. And you can tell that he’s from a nice family. Fred, I really believe his moving here right when Jane and Liz are home is the silver lining to our troubles.” The eldest and second eldest of the five Bennet sisters had lived in New York for the last decade and a half; it was due to their father’s health scare that they had abruptly, if temporarily, returned to Cincinnati.

“My dear,” said Mr. Bennet, “if a sock puppet with a trust fund and a Harvard medical degree moved here, you’d think he was meant to marry one of our girls.”

“Tease me all you like, but the clock is ticking. No, Jane doesn’t look like she’ll be forty in November, but any man who knows her age will think long and hard about what that means. And Liz isn’t far behind her.”

“Plenty of men don’t want children.” Mr. Bennet took a sip of coffee. “I’m still not sure that I do.”

“A woman in her forties can give birth,” Mrs. Bennet said, “but it isn’t as easy as the media would have you believe. Phyllis and Bob’s daughter had all sorts of procedures, and what did she end up with but little Ying from Shanghai.” As she stood, Mrs. Bennet glanced at her gold oval-faced watch. “I’m going to phone Helen Lucas and see if she can arrange an introduction to Chip.”

Chapter 1

My sensations are dulled by the alcohol. And I am so okay with that. Okay that I’ve had enough to drink so that for the first time in six months, the ache that hits me with the memories isn’t as sharp.

I look around and try to focus on everything—the abundant flowers, the welcome chill from the ocean breeze, the pair of high heels abandoned in the corner—but all I can think about is how beautiful and happy Rylee was tonight. And my mind keeps recalling what my sister, Lexi, looked like on her wedding day. The words she said to me, her laugh ringing out above the guests as Danny made his toast to her, the smile on her face as the future stretched ahead of them.

Stop it, Had. Don’t ruin a perfect night. You deserve to celebrate your best friend’s wedding without feeling guilty.

But I can’t stop thinking about that other wedding, although the details are starting to fade in my mind. And I so badly want to remember every little detail about her. I need to be able to tell my niece, Madelyn, about how her mom loved to stand in the rain because she wanted to catch it on her tongue, how she ate pizza backward because the crust was her favorite part, how she loved to face the opposite way on the swings so we could give each other high fives. There are so many things I fear I’ll forget.

And so many other memories from the past year that I wish I could.

“We’ll be back in the morning, miss, to pick up the tables and chairs and the lot.”

The caterer’s voice pulls me from my melancholy thoughts—thoughts that don’t belong after the sheer beauty of today’s wedding. I turn to look at him, words choking in my throat.

“Not a problem.” Becks’s voice startles me. I didn’t realize he was out here on the deck, but I’m so glad he answers because, between the alcohol and the memories, I’m in no shape to respond coherently. “The housekeeper, Grace, will be here at ten to let you in.”

I finish the rest of my drink as the caterer thanks Becks. Then I turn around on unsteady legs to face him as he steps out of the night’s shadows into the light of the full moon. And it must be a mixture of the heady emotions of the day and my lack of sobriety, but my breath catches when I meet his eyes.

It’s just Becks, boy-next-door handsome as usual . . . dirty blond hair spiked up at the ends, aqua blue eyes so light the night makes them seem transparent . . . so why in the hell are parts of my body suddenly on alert?

I dart my tongue out to my tingling lips as he leans a broad shoulder against the post of the trellis and stares at me, head angled to the side, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. I hear the ice in his glass clink as he shifts to set it on the table beside him, but his eyes hold steadfast to mine.

“You okay?” That slow, even drawl of his breaks the silence. I nod my head, still not trusting my voice, still trying to figure out why all of a sudden there is this tension between us—this electric energy—that has never been there before. Sure we’ve flirted harmlessly since we met through our best friends, Rylee and Colton, but this is different. And I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed, not sure if I even want to.

Maybe it’s the fact that right now, face shaded with darkness, he looks a little dangerous, a little mysterious, a lot more the bad-boy type I usually fall for. He’s always struck me as more of a good guy, a down-home country type. But somehow the mixture of moonlight and night shadows brings out another side of him I’ve never envisioned; he looks edgier, more the wilder type I waste my time on, get my heart broken by, have a hard time resisting. That has to be why I’m feeling a sudden attraction.

So if I know the reason, why is my drunk mind still wondering what he’d taste like? What his hands would feel like as they run up my inner thighs? How the slow, even tone of his voice would sound as he loses control?

The silence sparks between us, only interrupted by the distant roll of ocean waves. I draw in a breath and shake my head again. “I’m okay,” I say, and laugh, trying to avoid the questions I don’t want to answer. “Just drunk and enjoying the feeling.”

“Feeling is most definitely a good thing,” he says, straightening up his tall, athletic frame and taking a step toward me, “but, City, I think it’s best if I get you to bed before it starts to not be a good feeling.”

I smile softly at his use of the term of endearment. He gave me the nickname City the first night we met in Las Vegas, back before my life had been torn apart by Lexi’s death. It feels like a lifetime ago when in reality it has only been a year since the unexpected overnight trip with Rylee and Colton to the city of sin where the two of us flirted, first acknowledged the attraction we felt but have never acted on. . . . I close my eyes and remember the carefree feeling I had that night. I’d called him Country to tease him about that laid back demeanor of his, so opposite from everything I usually find appealing. And yet as he sat there in the Las Vegas nightclub, the club’s lights flashing over his face while he called me City in return, I caught myself wondering just what Beckett Daniels would kiss like.

The question floats through my mind again. Forget about it, Montgomery, I tell myself as I go to place my hand on the railing at my back and miss by a mile, causing him to chuckle, low and soft.

Chills light a path over my skin, and I can’t help the giggle that falls from my lips as my mind wanders to other things I’d rather be feeling right now. Other distractions I could use to shake the bittersweet emotions weighing me down.

Christ on a crutch! Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Going to bed—especially someone else’s—is most definitely a good idea.

That’ll fix it. Always has, these past six months. I’ll just go grab my keys and my cell, call Dylan or Pete and let them know I’m on my way over. I’ll let whoever is the first to answer know that I’m feeling a little sexually festive tonight. I’ll use one of them to try to forget; feel a little less, by feeling a whole lot more.

“Something funny?”

I cover my mouth with my hand but can’t stop myself from snickering. “Just feeling a little festive, is all.” And the giggle returns as I think of Lex and how she used to say that women are not sluts, just sexually festive. And tonight? God, tonight I just want to be that. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to care. I just want to escape a bit from my thoughts.

“Festive, huh?” he asks, eyes appraising me and full mouth tugging up at one corner.

“Yep!” I nod my head. “Time for this girl to carry this party to another location, Country.” I start to walk—well, stumble. Shit! How the hell am I going to drive? I keep walking, hand running across the wall to help steady myself.

“Nice try, Haddie. Did you forget that the limo brought you here? I have to drive you home.”

Crap! I try not to falter. “Well, I guess I’m taking your car, then,” I say as I keep walking away from him.

“That’s funny, but, uh, you’re in no shape to drive.” His voice calls out to me, and the amusement in it pisses me off. “You’re not going anywhere, festivities or not.”

“Like hell I am.” I toss over my shoulder and keep walking toward the house. Just leave me alone, I yell in my head. Don’t go all alpha on me now when all I want from you is slow and steady because I’m way too drunk and way too needy to see in him what I’m attracted to.

“Try me.” The arrogance in his voice sets me off. Pushes me to be bitchy and defiant so that I don’t make a huge mistake I don’t want to make. Do want to make. Fuck if I can think clearly enough to know what I want, but I do know that Beckett’s one of those guys you settle down with . . . and no way in hell do I want to settle down.

Ever.

The hurt comes flooding back, the memories riding shotgun right alongside them. I stop to steady my legs and remind myself not to repeat the mistakes my sister made.

I can hear him behind me, know he’s waiting for me to respond. “Neither of us is in any state to drive tonight. Festivities are over.” I hear his shoes step on something that crunches just behind me, and I squeeze my eyes shut to fight off the whirlwind of shit in my head. “C’mon, Montgomery. It was a perfect day, but I’m taking you to bed.”

I snort a laugh because even though his comment is innocent in nature since we both told Rylee we’d stay the night to oversee all of the postreception cleanup, Becks just hit the nail on the head. To bed is exactly where I want him to take me right now, his in particular. Wait! No, I don’t want that. Goddamn alcohol is making me wishy-washy. I hate wishy-washy.

He says my name again, and something in the way he says it causes my feet to falter. We stand there, my back to him, in a silent standoff. I don’t move, don’t turn around to face him, because I just want to run. Rewind time and get me back again. The carefree, careless me who has been drowning in grief these past few months.

His hand closes over my biceps, and I don’t know why I’m so angry at him, but I am. I don’t want to be touched gently. I don’t want to be coddled. I just want to leave so I can escape the memories today dredged up from deep within me, reopening the wounds I don’t think will ever heal.

I turn around, trying to shrug out of his grasp, but the movement makes me wobble on my heels. “Whoa!” I hear him say as one of my ankles gives out and I fall into him. His back is pressed against the wall, and I land solidly against him.

It’s not as if I haven’t been in this position with him tonight already. We danced so many times earlier during the reception, so why is it that this time, when my breasts rub against the firmness of his chest, the fight leaves me? The need fills me? I don’t even want to think about it, but it’s all I can focus on when our bodies touch from chest to thigh. It’s all my mind can grasp, because when I look up at him from beneath my lashes, my eyes catch sight of that magnificent mouth of his.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the sentimental aftermath of watching two people who really belong together get married. Maybe it’s because I felt closer to Lexi today than I have in a long while. I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t give a fuck about mistakes or consequences. I just need to feel. Need to lose myself. And shit, it’s just Becks after all.

I don’t meet his eyes. Don’t want to know whether he wants this, because I do. I lean forward and press my lips to his, not giving him any time to react because damn if his lips aren’t the perfect combination of firm and soft. His body tenses as mine softens into him, and I slide my hands up his chest at the same time my tongue slips between his lips. I moan softly at the warmth of his mouth, the taste of the rum on his tongue, the feel of his breath catching. His strong palms slide slowly up my bare arms as we sink further into the kiss, when all of a sudden his fingers dig into my shoulders and he’s pushing me away. A shocked gasp falls from both of our mouths when our connection is broken.

“Haddie.” His voice is pained as he says my name, a contradictory plea and curse at the same time.

And my mind may be a little fuzzy and my body coiled so tight from his kiss, but that break in his voice tells me he more than enjoyed it. That he wants me just as badly as I want him.

I force myself to look up, meet the clouded shock in his eyes. “What? Don’t you want me, Becks?”

I feel his fingers tense on my shoulders, hear a strained chuckle deep in his throat. “Oh, there’s a whole lot of want here,” he says before closing his eyes momentarily. He works a swallow in his throat and then pushes me away. “I’m just trying to play it safe, Had.”

His rejection stings—the alcohol softening the blow—but I feel the hesitancy in his fingers before he removes them from my shoulders. And with desire coursing through me, lust fueling its fire, I use my need to forget as the match to light the flame.

I step into him, slide my hands up his crisp white shirt, and meet his eyes. “C’mon, how much safer can we be? I’m with you, aren’t I? You’re not going to hurt me . . . are you, Becks?” I may have drunk a lot tonight, but I know desire when I see it, and damn if it doesn’t look sexy on Becks.

His jaw clenches, head tilts ever so slightly to the side, and his body tenses as he stares at me through the moonlit night.

“Isn’t it normal for the best man and the maid of honor to hook up, anyway?”

“Haddie.” My name is a drawn-out sigh, and I can hear his frustration laced with desire. I can feel the heat of his breath hit my lips.

The way he says my name causes the fire within me to rage because now I know the answer to my question: how he sounds when he loses control. And if he thought he was going to push me away after hearing that, he’s got another think coming.

“No one wants to play it safe tonight. . . . Live a little,” I tell him, reaching out and running a fingernail up the hollow of his neck where his shirt is unbuttoned. I lean in closer and whisper, “Please, help me live a little.”

“Oh, I believe you live a whole lot.” He chuckles with a subtle shake of his head, but those blue eyes of his remain locked on mine, a war of unexpressed emotions between us. “That’s what I love about you.”

My need to have him escalates with his nonchalance. And fuck, this is frustrating. Can’t a girl just get laid here? I’m not used to having to convince guys to get what I want, so why in the hell is this so difficult?

“I didn’t say shit about love, Country.” I say the words playfully but taste his rejection on my lips. “I don’t need strings. I just need you to make me feel . . . help me lose myself for a bit.”

He leans his head forward so that we are eye to eye, his hands coming up to frame my face so that I can see the concern and unwanted desire dancing in them. “I didn’t know you wanted to be lost.”

“We all need to lose ourselves sometimes, don’t we?” My question hangs in the still of the night as his eyes search mine for answers I won’t give.

He shakes his head, and I can tell he’s trying to convince himself to step away. “I don’t want to complicate things,” he says with a clenched jaw as he lowers his hands slowly from my face and stands back. Physically distancing himself to emphasize his words, but they contradict the look in his eyes.

“No complications. I told you, Becks,” I say, trying to keep the desperation I suddenly feel from my voice, “no strings, just sex. A little release after this incredible day. C’mon, what guy would pass up that chance?”

He groans. “A guy who’s trying really hard to do the right thing here and play it safe.” He steps forward, and I think I’ve gotten to him. He places an arm around my shoulder and starts steering me into the house. “C’mon, festive Haddie, I’m gonna help you to your room.”

“You’re a buzz kill, Becks,” I whine like a petulant child, nearly stomping my four-inch heels.

“And you’re a lot drunk like me,” he says into the crown of my head, followed by a chaste kiss. “Hell, if I don’t want you, Had . . . hell, if I don’t doubt that sex with you would be incredible, but fuck, I don’t want to do anything we’d regret in the morning because we’re drunk. Don’t want there to be awkwardness every time we hang out together. And goddamm it if you’re not making it hard to do the respectable thing and walk away.” The heat of his breath on my scalp sends chills down my spine.

“Aha!” I shout out, feeling like my feet are a bit more steady, now that I know he’s not really rejecting me, but being the good guy I pegged him to be. “You do want me!”

He stops immediately and looks down at me as if I’m crazy, brow furrowed, eyes wide. He starts to say something and then stops and shakes his head, before sighing and starting to move again. I turn into his body so that I can look up at him as he steers us through the house to our respective rooms. I take in his strong jaw and tanned skin and wonder what he would taste like as I run my tongue up the line of his neck. The ache of sensations that at this point I can only imagine spiral through me, make me even more determined than ever to prove to Becks that I need this, need him, tonight, and that we can do this without complications.

Shit, every man needs a push now and again. . . . Guess I’d better start pushing.

He stops walking and raises his eyebrows with a lift of his chin toward the open door to my room. It’s now or never, Had. I press against him, the hum of my desire igniting instantly. “Please, Becks?” I lower the pitch of my voice even though it’s just the two of us. “All of the romance and nostalgia of tonight didn’t get to you? Didn’t make you need the comfort of a woman? Want to hear her moan, bury yourself in her, feel her heat?”

My God, my own damn words are turning me on. My attempt at seducing Becks is making my own need undeniable. I lean up and bring my lips to his ear. “Comfort me, Becks.”

“You’re making it so damn hard to be good.” He says it like a curse, and when I step back, his body instinctively moves forward. His reaction causes a part of the old me to spark to life, and I grab onto it. I hold it tight as I push the sappy, needy, emotional Haddie away. And I welcome the forward, balls-to-the-wall attitude that’s been drowned by my grief.

And God, it feels good, slipping back into her shoes, even if for just a bit.

“Hard. Hm,” I hum deep in my throat, “now, there’s a good word.”

I step backward into the room, my eyes still trained on him as he stands in the doorframe, hands gripping the sides. I know I’ve won him over, know it’ll just take my next move to get what I’ve been working toward. What I desperately need.

And as I stare at him so handsomely framed in the doorway, I wonder fleetingly what it is about this moment that has made me feel normal again. Allowed me to shed the guilt that’s burdened me and taken my carefree attitude with it. I push the civil war of thoughts that’s been a constant refrain as of late from my head. I don’t allow myself to think any more about it, because all I want to do is feel.

With our eyes locked, I pull down the zipper of my dress. “Hey, Becks?” His eyes widen at the coy tone to my voice. The dress falls and pools around my feet. “Fuck playing it safe.”

Chapter 2

Beckett stares at me for a beat—jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine, body tense—before his restraint crumbles. As buzzed as I am, I notice that as he walks toward me his eyes never leave my face. They don’t wander to take in what I’m handing over to him—my body, the lace hugging my curves, and all of its temptation. They stay steadfast on mine, desire brimming and disbelief warring inside them.

But when he reaches me—when his hands flash out to pull my body into his, one hand on the nape of my neck, the other pressed against my back—my thoughts are lost as my need surges. His lips find mine in a frenzy of lust. Lips mesh, tongues lick, teeth nip.

Desire unfurls and breaks its way through the haze of alcohol. His hands map the lines of my body, fingers dipping beneath the lace of my bra to tempt and touch but not to take, not just yet. Soft moans turn into urgent murmurs of hurry, quickly, I want, and I need.

I’m desperate to feel the heat of his chest against mine, skin to skin—the initial connection that will sate the frenzy until I can expose the rest of his flesh. His lips and tongue continue their pleasurable assault on my lips, distracting me thoroughly from the task at hand, getting him naked.

I can’t help but giggle as I drag my mouth from his to draw in the air he’s knocked out of me, and to get my fingers to unfasten instead of grip his shirt. I laugh again as I try to concentrate on the little buttons that don’t want to slip through the tiny holes.

His chuckle is deep and strained, and I can feel its vibrations against my fingers. “Let me,” he says, my eyes flicking up to his, but not before I catch the amused smirk curling up the corner of his mouth. His hands close over mine and tug apart the shirt. The sound of buttons hitting and scattering over the hardwood floor is the only other noise filling the room besides our labored breaths.

His eyes darken and cloud, and then his lips are on mine. I run my hands up the toned plane of his chest while he pulls his arms from his shirt. My nails scrape and his breath hisses as he brings a hand up to fist in my hair and pull my chin up so that he can work his mouth along the line of my jaw and across the curve of my neck.

“Sweet Haddie,” he murmurs as his hand finds my breast and yanks down the cup of my bra, his callused palms replacing the softness of the lace. I gasp out loud as his mouth slides in its tempestuous descent. “Sweet, sweet Haddie . . . I wonder if your pussy tastes just as sweet as your kiss . . . as your skin . . . as right here.”

The heat of his mouth replaces the caress of his fingers on my breast, and I’m swamped by the sensation of it. Of him. My head falls back, and my words tumble out. “What are you waiting for?”

That chuckle of his hums against my breast before he tilts his head back and looks up at me under lust-laden eyelids. “Demanding, are we?” His eyes dance with humor before the dare flickers through them. Try me, they say.

And a part of me wants to. A part of me wants to push him to see just how much control he’s willing to give me. Is he going to do what I say, or will he do what he wants?

Challenge accepted.

“Then taste me, Becks. I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue in me. I want you to taste me on your lips as I’m still coming and while you’re fucking me.”

He sucks harder on my nipple; a tortured groan escapes his lips as he rises to his full height and stares at me. “Fucking hell, Had,” he says before his lips brand mine, his mouth possessing, taking, claiming as if I were his. “Are you trying to tell me how to fuck you?”

I feel the heat of his breath on my lips, see the taunt in his smirk and the raise of a brow, but I can’t think of the witty comeback I know is there. His hands slide down my torso and grip my bare waist, causing my breath to stutter as he yanks my body into his. His impressive hard-on presses against my lower belly, causing the ache simmering there to intensify.

Becks leans in close, his lips grazing my ear in a move that causes chills to chase over my skin. “Rest assured, Haddie, I know how to fuck you. I know how to make you come.” His teeth tug on my earlobe to reinforce his words. “I know how to make this hot-as-fuck body of yours tremble, tense, and beg for more . . . so lie back, and let me taste you.”

And just when I think my body can’t coil any tighter from desire, from the explicitness of his words and the taste of his tongue on mine, he picks me up at the waist and throws me back on the bed. I giggle as I hit the mattress, the air escaping from my lungs, and before I can take a breath, Beckett’s on me. I try to wriggle away—try to flip over as we both laugh in our alcohol-infused state—but I’m no match for him.

“Sweet Haddie,” he taunts as his arms pin my wrists to the bed on either side of my head. He leans down and teases my lips, tracing my bottom one with his tongue before slipping it into my mouth, his erection pressing exactly where I want it to be. I wriggle my hips; patience is so not my virtue. He pulls away and sits on his knees, between my thighs. My eyes scrape down the defined lines of his torso—a torso that I’ve seen so many times before—but tonight, with him sitting in front of me like this, holy hell, do I realize I’ve never taken the time to appreciate just how hot he really is.

I work a swallow down my throat as he angles his head to the side and stares at me for a beat. I’m so entranced by the unsated need pooling moisture between my thighs that when I feel his fingers trail up the outside of my panties, I gasp. “The question is,” he asks with an arch of his brow as he leans down, “how many times can I make you come?”

And with those words, his hands press my thighs down, and his mouth closes over the fabric covering my clit. The warm heat of his mouth causes me to grip the comforter beneath me. The seduction of his words already has me craving his touch, and now the silk barrier between his tongue and my flesh drives me insane. Giving me and not giving me what I want all at the same time.

“Becks” is all I can manage as I throw my head back, close my eyes, and allow myself to absorb the pleasure. Fingertips trail up the inside of my thighs, and I can feel the cool air on my heated flesh as he uses a finger to pull my thong to the side. And when his mouth makes contact this time, I cry out as the liquid heat flows through me, my arms and legs tensing.

“God, you taste good,” he says, his voice hitting my ears as I’m being pulled under a tidal wave of sensation. His tongue continues to lick while I feel his fingers spread my flesh apart so he can slide inside me. He moves them so subtly, but whatever he’s doing has me moaning instantly when they find the spot that sets my nerve endings ablaze.

He continues his tantalizing barrage on my senses, rubbing and laving with just the right amount of friction to cause the wave of sensation to rise up and crash all around me in a flurry of breath-stealing ripples. His name falls from my lips, over and over, as I ride out my climax, his mouth still buried between my thighs, licking his way into me until the sensation is almost too much to bear.

My eyes are shut tight, the room spinning from the heady rush of desire, and I feel him slide his way up my body. Then his mouth is on mine again, tongue delving between my parted lips. “Can you taste how sweet you are? Can you taste what I just did to you?”

My response is an incoherent moan as he moves his knees to either side of my hips. He brings his hands up to cradle my head and control the depth and angle of his kiss, holding nothing back until I am left breathless from the intensity when he pulls away and looks in my eyes.

“That’s one . . . ,” he teases, his voice trailing off as I reach out to his waist. He sits with such a delicious weight on my lower belly and I start to undo his trousers. My body may still be pulsing from my orgasm but I want more.

Becks hisses as my hands slide between his boxer briefs and his heated skin, gripping onto his erection and pulling it free. I slide my hand up and down, my thumb rubbing the drop of moisture at the tip around his length. He angles his head up to the ceiling and emits a groan of satisfaction that leaves my core tingling for more.

“One, huh?” I tease, trying to keep this playful because fuck if his mouth alone isn’t worth coming back for seconds. I take his length in my palm and slide back down him, enjoying watching his abs tense. “Please, tell me you’ll keep your promises because I need to come more than once,” I tell him, delighted at how he’s pushed away my thoughts from earlier. “And, Becks, you’ve had more to drink than me, so please tell me you won’t suffer from a case of whiskey dick right now.”

His head snaps forward, and his eyes hold mine, that chuckle falling from his mouth again. He shakes his head as he closes his hand over mine on his cock and says, “Demanding, are we? Is that not hard enough for you?”

I fight my smirk, because if he’s going to throw out promises, he sure as fuck had better keep them. “It’s hard all right, but I just wanted to make sure it stays that way.”

“I believe you’re insulting me,” he says, running our joined hands up and down again, eyes closing momentarily from the sensation.

“It’s not an insult if it’s true.”

He continues to stare at me, and within a beat, he’s off the bed. I push myself up on my elbows, trying to see what in the hell he’s doing. Please, tell me he didn’t get offended by that comment. If he did, he can just keep on walking, regardless of his magical tongue. I don’t need a man who gets his feelings hurt by a little teasing.

But then again, his tongue is pretty fantast-orgasmic.

A small part of me sighs in relief when Beckett stands still with his back to me and doesn’t walk to the door. The other part of me frets that if he stays, he just might be the completely unexpected but perfect combination of naughty and nice that has the ability to make me go back on the promises I made to myself. Promises about what I will or won’t do in the long term. No strings, Haddie. No ties, I remind myself.

And then any rational thinking I’ve been doing is vaporized when Becks drops his pants and turns around. I know his eyes are on me, but mine are focused on him and his condom-covered erection. The alcohol has most definitely not affected him. I tear my eyes away from the impressive sight and take in the whole package as he walks toward the bed in a predatory, purposeful manner. His eyes are filled with a combination of amusement and lust, and his body signals that I’m his for the taking: shoulders broad, gait confident, and smirk goading me to tell him otherwise.

He reaches the edge of the bed and, without comment, grabs my calves and pulls me toward him so that his hips are nestled perfectly between my thighs, which are hanging off the bed in his hands. He reaches down to slowly slide off my thong and then steps back to pull it over my heeled feet and tosses it carelessly over his shoulder. I am more than turned on by watching his eyes take in every inch of my body, completely unashamed as he watches his fingers play over my sex and run their way up and down my seam. His breath stutters, his nostrils flare, and his lips fall lax as his eyes observe his finger slide slowly in and then back out.

We both gasp, me from the sensation and him from the sight. His fingers rub and slide in a slow, even rhythm that has my already sensitized flesh on high alert. A moan falls from my lips as my body starts to heat up and Beckett’s eyes flash up to meet mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip as his fingers withdraw, but keep me open as he lines himself up with my entrance.

His eyes hold mine when he slowly enters me, every thick inch of him, filling, stretching, engaging every single nerve within me. He seats himself fully root to tip; his jaw clenches in restraint, and his eyes darken with desire as it takes everything I have not to roll mine into the back of my head at the sublime feeling. I want to watch him. Want to stare into those eyes and take in his incredible body as he works mine into a fever pitch.

I clench my muscles around him, silently telling him I’m ready for what’s to come when he surprises me by leaning over and kissing me. A slow, hypnotizing dance of tongues as his cock presses even farther into me until I don’t think I can take it anymore. My body surrenders, and just when my head starts to fill with so many thoughts of how this unexpected action is tying the strings we’re not supposed to have, he leans back, face inches from mine, and smirks. “Is that hard enough for you?”

I focus on that arrogant grin instead of the thoughts in my head, and release a soft groan when he withdraws a fraction as he stands up. He holds still, eyes locked on mine and he pulls out ever so slowly until just the tip of him is inside of me. “Well, is it?”

God, yes, it is. God, yes, I want him pounding into me, driving me to the oblivion just beyond the horizon. I open my legs wider and reach my hands up to squeeze my own breasts. My muscles tighten around him in response to the moment, to the anticipation, in reaction to him withholding what I want the most.

“Fuck me, Becks.” It’s all I can say, because before his name is out of my mouth, he rears back and thrusts into me, my body rippling with a shock wave of pleasure. His hands grip into the flesh of my thighs as he begins again, each drive in and sensation-inducing withdraw out, allowing me to climb the ladder at a maddening pace.

My pulse pounds and my breath chases after it, on an endless race toward the finish line. My senses feel drugged, overwhelmed, scored with his possession of my body. My muscles tense and chills dance across my flesh, despite the sweat misting it as he drives into me harder and harder. My hands snake down my torso to part myself and allow my fingers to add that little extra friction to push me over the precipice.

I bring my eyes up to his to watch his reaction—to see if he’s one of those assholes who think only he’s allowed to bring me to climax—and I see his eyes dart down and focus on me pleasuring myself. His fingers dig deeper, his hips pound harder, and the muscles in his shoulders grow tenser.

I cry out as the dynamite detonates within me. An explosion of liquid heat paralyzes my body—legs tense, arms stiff, breath held—as I succumb to my orgasm. And even though my body feels like it’s so overloaded I can’t possibly take any more, Becks keeps going, keeps raking his head over my walls that are sated with such a pleasurable pain I’m not sure if I want him to stop or keep going to see how much farther he can take me.

“Becks.” His name is a broken cry on my lips as my body begins to shake from the force of my climax. He slows down some but adds a grind of his hips as he thrusts into me.

“Hold on, hold on,” he moans out before rearing back and driving into me a few more times. A groan falls from his lips as his head drops back and his hands hold my hips still. I can feel his dick pulse inside of me as he claims his own release, his body rocking subtly as he rides out the feeling. I lay my head back and close my eyes, allowing him a few moments to come down from his high.

I feel him shift, and then I cry out in surprise when his five o’clock shadow scrapes over my abdomen as he kisses his way up the midline of my chest. He stops beneath my jaw for a moment, as he collects his breath before murmuring, “That’s two.”

“That was most definitely two,” I tell him as the deep timbre of his laugh is muffled against my skin. I stop my hands from reaching out and running up and over his back as his weight rests comfortably on me. A touch like that is too much, too intimate when I’m just trying to keep it casual.

We remain like this for a moment, unspoken words replaced by our labored breathing, when all of a sudden Becks starts to move. I assume he is going to slip out of me and go wash up, put an end to our unexpected nightcap, so I’m surprised when he kisses his way back down my neck. He stops and takes one nipple in his mouth while his hand palms the other, both lips and fingers manipulating my tightened buds until I’m writhing again.

He slips out of me and I sigh with audible satisfaction. His mouth starts the slow descent down to the apex of my thighs, and I whip my head up to look at him.

Again?

Holy fuck, he’s trying to kill me.

He kisses the top of my sex and looks up at me with a salacious look in his eyes. “I’ve read a woman comes harder the second or third time,” he says. “Be sure to let me know.”

He kisses my skin again and chuckles. “Oh, yeah, here comes three.”

Chapter 3

My eyelids are closed but it’s still so damn bright from the sunlight streaming into the room. I squeeze my eyes tighter to try to block it out, trying to clear the haze from my thoughts. I struggle to remember details from last night. How is it possible that I drank enough I can’t remember, but my head isn’t pounding like a damn tom drum?

I decide to snuggle farther into the down comforter, not wanting to wake up just yet. Wanting to forgo the headache that will inevitably hit me at full force the minute my body acknowledges it’s awake. But the fog starts to dissipate, and my thoughts replay the perfection of yesterday and what an incredible day it was. Smiles and laughter and love. Dancing and drinking and . . . oh fuck.

... fuck playing it safe . . .

... here comes three . . .

The words flicker through my mind and now I’m completely alert and cringe from the sun when my eyes flash open. I blink against the harsh light, and when I can focus, I’m staring straight at Becks. Oh shit!

His head is angled to the side on his pillow, the lines of his face relaxed and his hair sticking up every which way. There’s a five o’clock shadow where I’m used to seeing his clean-shaven skin, and I vaguely recall the feel of it grazing against my abdomen. My eyes admiringly trace the line of his throat down his chest to that sexy-as-hell infinity zone, which disappears beneath the sheet right where I want to look the most. The sight of him undressed is even more overpowering now that I am completely sober.

I admire the view momentarily and wonder if I pull the sheets a little tighter around me, will they slip far enough off of him to grant me the view I want? I start to slowly draw them toward me when last night comes flooding back to me in full high-definition color.

Whispered words and moaned sighs. The heady combination of playful teasing, unfettered need, and insatiable desire. His adept hands and skillful mouth creating an ache so intense, I felt as if my body was on fire.

I remember how he gave me exactly what I wanted—to feel physically so that I could be numb to emotion. How when I looked into his eyes, I pleaded with him to bring me to the brink, push me into that oblivion of sensation. And when he finally entered me, he was a considerate yet demanding lover who left me breathless, sated, and confused.

My thighs tense, and my core clenches as I recall all of the sensations he evoked in me. I lay my head back down on the pillow and close my eyes to try to push away the desire that’s already burning anew.

It was a onetime thing.

Sex without strings.

Exactly how I wanted it.

So why is my mind focusing on what he murmured into the silent room as I lay curled up against him when he thought I’d drifted off to sleep? His sighed words were laced with frustrated confusion. “Goddamn strings.”

The alcohol-blurred details continue to play behind my closed eyelids like a slide show, and all I keep thinking is: What the fuck was I thinking? But I know I wasn’t really thinking at all. I was so busy trying to mask my grief that I selfishly never considered the harm I might do to him in the end.

Fuck. Damn. Shit.

I also can’t help but think what a truly good guy he is. This is all my fault—even though my mind is floating with fuzzy bits of our time together, I can still piece together the fact that Becks tried to do the right thing. He tried to put me to bed, let me sleep it off, prevent me from getting behind the wheel.

This is on me. Completely on me. Why couldn’t I have followed through with my plan to leave and go screw around with someone who wouldn’t have given a shit if I left in the morning without another word? Why last night of all nights did I need to feel something just a little bit more? Was I afraid that the dam I’d built around my heartache might break and maybe, just maybe, I wanted someone around who I knew would take care of me if it did?

And so I used him.

Used a good man who didn’t deserve to be used. Guilt eats at me until I force myself to open my eyes again and face Becks. I take in his handsome face and all-American good looks. He’s the quintessential good guy—most definitely not my stereotypical go-to tattooed bad boy. I study him for a minute, my eyes drifting back down to where the sheet rests low on his hips . . . because he may not be my type but that doesn’t mean I can’t admire his hotter-than-hell physique. Soon my mind wanders back to the feel of his muscles bunching beneath my fingers, and I can’t help but wonder if I could ever get used to him. To this.

I am so used to thriving on the wild, volatile but fun-as-fuck drama-filled relationships—well, if you can really call them relationships—with the rebels in my past.

I can’t help my hushed chuckle when the thought hits me: Who would’ve thought that Ry would have spent the night—shit, married—the reckless bad boy, while I spent it with the Southern gentleman? Talk about switching places. Something was most definitely screwy with the world.

When I look up, I startle as I meet Becks’s blue eyes. We stare at each other for a moment as we struggle with the awkwardness and figure out where to go from here. He looks at me from beneath half-closed eyelids and says, “Morning.” He yawns softly but never takes his eyes from mine as if he’s waiting to gauge my reaction before saying anything else.

“Good morning,” I murmur back, my fingers tracing idle lines on the sheet. A slow, sluggish smile turns up one corner of his mouth, and my heart stutters in my chest.

And panic starts closing in on my throat.

I don’t want to feel the warmth that just spread throughout my body at that lazy, boyish grin of his. I don’t want to feel the contentment I feel right now. And most of all, I don’t want to see that look in his eyes that tells me this could be so much more if I let it.

That’s what Lexi did.

And look where that left her and Danny. And Maddie.

I shake myself from my thoughts and try to swallow the lump of anxiety taking hold. I avert my eyes quickly as I calm my overactive imagination and stop freaking the fuck out. I remind myself that I took my batteries out of my biological clock and put them in my vibrator for a reason.

I can do this. I may not remember all of last night, but I recall telling him that it would be sex without strings. He understood up front what this was. No matter what the fuck last night was, it was just a physical connection between two willing adults. So why am I afraid to look up from my fidgeting fingers and meet his eyes?

“Hey?” The rasp of his voice, laced with concern, pulls at me until I can’t stand it anymore. I look up to his eyes. “What are you thinking . . . ?” His voice trails off as I find mine.

I gather the sheet around my chest, “Becks,” I say his name with a shy smile on my face, “this is okay.” I shake my head for emphasis. “We may have been drunk last night, but, one, I’m never too drunk to not remember and enjoy . . . and boy, did I enjoy.” I can’t resist adding that last part because, casual or not, the man’s got some moves. Number three was definitely more earth shifting than number two. And hell if four wasn’t pretty damn good too. My comment causes the lazy smile on his face to spread into a sheepish grin, which instantly has me wanting to melt into him. And I can’t. It’s not an option, regardless of how much my insides are warmed by the thoughts I refuse to welcome.

“We agreed no strings. No complications,” I say, shrugging my shoulders to let him know that I’m more than okay with this. Something flickers in his eyes, and I can’t quite get a read on it, so I continue. “I’m not the typical, clingy female that—”

“You’re anything but typical,” he murmurs sleepily.

I just stare at him for a beat before I tell myself to get my point across before I say something stupid. “Thanks, but all I was trying to say is that I’m not the type of girl to turn into a psycho stalker after a night of casual sex.”

“Coming four times is not exactly casual sex,” he teases with a playful smirk, which has me laughing nervously.

“Becks, I just don’t want this to be awkward. . . .” I shake my head, needing to say this to remove the guilt from my conscience. “I’m sorry that I pushed you last night . . . I didn’t mean for . . .” I sigh out loud as the thoughts I want to convey aren’t forming into the words I need.

“No one pushes me to do anything. Especially sex.”

His eyes search mine like he wants to say something else but he doesn’t. So I continue blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Thank you for taking care of me.” I cringe and avert my eyes immediately, embarrassed but glad I said it.

He continues staring at me for a moment with his quiet intensity, before nodding his head subtly and shifting to sit up. “Well, I’m glad we got that straight,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so that his back is facing me. He scrubs a hand through his bed head, leaving it sticking up all over the place, before rising slowly. “No strings,” he repeats, standing up completely naked before walking toward the bathroom. I swear he mumbles something about a lasso, but I’m too busy looking at the view to care.

I may want no strings, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate one last lingering glance of that fine ass of his before he closes the bathroom door.

I smile smugly, understanding why Colton says Becks is the best pit crew chief in the business. He sure as hell kept my motor revving with perfection last night.

I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling as the toilet flushes, and then the shower starts. I hear the muted sounds of the ocean outside and stare at the shadows playing across the ceiling. I exhale as my thoughts turn to last night, my mind recalling and my skin remembering all too well his touch, his taste, his scent.

And then I start giggling. Wave after wave of laughter rolls through me as I realize that this is the first time in a long time I’ve woken up without the constant grief from Lexi’s death heavy on my thoughts and smothering my spirit.

I wipe the smudges from under my eyes, asking myself why today I finally feel like I can get through this: the grief, the loneliness of Lexi being gone.

And even though my mind keeps wandering to the fine-as-fuck man occupying the shower, I push those thoughts away, push him away. There is no possible way I could suddenly feel all of this because of him, and how he treated me last night or how he made me feel.

It was just the physical release that did this to me. It had to be.

Whatever. Who cares about the why, right? Because I’ll take the four orgasms he gave me and do my walk of shame with an enthusiastic bounce in my step.

* * *

“So, how do you like running your own business? You keeping busy?”

Becks’s question pulls me from my thoughts as the world outside flies by the passenger side window. I shift in my seat so I can study his profile. God sure as hell didn’t skimp in the looks department on him. So why am I all of a sudden just noticing it?

“It’s pretty cool working for myself.” I shrug, glad he’s keeping this casual and trying to avoid any awkwardness. “I have a couple events coming up with that company Scandalous that bought some of the older nightclubs around town to revamp them. They hired me to do the promotion for the reopenings, and if they like how things turn out, they’ll retain me as their premier promotion company.”

“So, you’ll have a high-profile client that will attract other clients. Nice,” he says, drawing out the last word and absently nodding his head.

“I haven’t clinched the deal yet. This chick doesn’t count her chickens.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Well, you should start counting because we both know it’ll be a success just because it’s you.”

A part of me is pleased he thinks so favorably of me, even after last night. He flicks on the blinker and glances over at me, before looking back to the highway in front of him.

“So what’s your story?”

I furrow my brows as I stare at him, thinking the question odd since we’ve known each other more than a year, but then I realize in all that time, aside from superficial questions, Becks and I have never spoken about our pasts, how we got where we are. And then it bugs me because I can’t figure out why he’s asking me. I mean this is supposed to be casual, so we shouldn’t weigh it down with any history.

“Becks,” I sigh out his name. “Look, I appreciate you trying to make this situation so it’s not awkward, but we don’t have to do the whole ‘twenty questions about your past’ thing.”

He chuckles low and shakes his head like he’s trying to process what I just said. “You must have dated some real winners in your past. First of all,” he says, looking over to me and then back to the road as I try to not appear irritated by his comment. “I’m not asking you because I feel obligated. I find you intriguing and am curious about what got you here to this point, so humor me. . . .”

“And second?” I ask, a little taken aback by his interest.

“Second? Hm. Second, I don’t have a clue what I was going to say because those sexy legs of yours distracted me.” He laughs, and how can I be anything but flattered? “But I assure you it was damn good.”

“Smooth,” I tease, enjoying the ease between us.

“Oh, there’s still a whole helluva lot of rough.” He smirks and reaches over to pat my knee. “So humor me?”

I sigh loudly, not getting the point of this exercise since there isn’t a future between us. “Grew up in Long Beach. Pretty normal childhood. One sister, Lexi,” I say as if he didn’t already know and glance over at him to see if he noticed the waver in my voice, but he’s looking at the road ahead of us. “Was okay in school, nothing stellar. My mom got sick my junior year and—”

“Sick?”

“Breast cancer,” I tell him as I watch the shock flicker across his face that more than one person in my immediate family has been afflicted with the devastation of this disease. “She was in and out of treatment, surgeries, whatnot well into my senior year but I managed to get into UCLA.” I smile at the memory of how torn I was because Lexi went to Arizona for school. How I’d wanted to follow her and fulfill our goals of getting an apartment and living on our own together, but I wasn’t accepted there. “I walked into the dorm freshman year and there was this brown-haired girl with curious eyes and a shy smile sitting opposite of me.”

“Rylee.”

“Yep. My parents left after I’d unpacked, and Ry and I have been inseparable ever since. We went through the freshman fifteen together, boyfriends, heartbreaks, so much during those four years and everything life threw at us after. I graduated with a degree in PR and got lucky right off the bat with an internship at a company called PRX. Worked my way up from gofer to managing my own events. I loved my job there and was able to build a decent reputation after proving that the cute little blonde was more than just a decoration.”

“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.” The words on my tongue falter at his oddly satisfying compliment. “So, why leave and start HaLex, then?”

The smile tugs at the corners of my mouth while my heart aches with the sadness of the truth. “Because Lexi and I always wanted to do something together. . . . Even when we were little, we’d pretend to have a business where we scheduled our Barbies for photo shoots or had our Cabbage Patch Kids doing commercials.” I laugh at the memories that flicker through my mind. “So, we decided with her business degree and my established connections we’d try it. What did we have to lose? I had a few clients offer to give me some smaller jobs, so I quit PRX . . . and two months later, Lex was diagnosed.”

“Had . . .”

I shrug, try to act like it’s no big deal when in fact it was my whole world tumbling down. “Yeah, well . . . now . . .” I let the thought drift off, unsure exactly what else there is to tell of my heartbreak. I clear my throat of the emotion, and the car falls into silence.

“Your mom is okay now?”

The shards of heartbreak spike anew. “She was in remission for four years and then it relapsed. The second time was bad.” Chills chase one another over my skin. “Double mastectomy, endless chemo and radiation . . . just bad.”

He reaches out and holds my hand in his, a silent show of support that’s unexpectedly welcome when I’m so used to shunning it. I appreciate his avoidance of the word sorry, the most overused word on the face of the earth when someone becomes ill or dies. The quiet falls again, both of us lost in our thoughts.

After a bit Becks brushes his thumb back and forth over the top of my hand, and while it’s a simple, nonverbal acknowledgment of my grief, it’s also a subtle reminder of the damn good sex we had last night. My body reacts without thought, that ache between my thighs reawakening unexpectedly. I steal a glance over at him, but his attention is focused completely on the road ahead of us.

Does he feel it too?

Ah crap. Lock it down, Montgomery. No need to be thinking with your crotch when this was a onetime deal. It’s not a budding flower, for God’s sake. Think snapdragon. Think Venus flytrap. Think shutting it down to prevent his dick from dominating your thoughts.

“Last night . . .” It’s all he says, his voice trailing off as he glances behind him to change lanes.

Dick dominance gone.

Hello, awkwardness.

No need to cool the ache of desire between my thighs now because that sure as hell was the jolt I needed to pull my thoughts and body from the edge of desire.

I feign that I need to scratch my other arm, an excuse to pull my hand from his and break our connection.

His sigh tells me he sees right through my bluff, so I stare at him, waiting for him to look my way again. I need him to see the expression on my face that says I’m totally cool with what happened. But he doesn’t look at me—not even a glance—so that I can figure out what it is he’s getting at.

“Was it about Lexi? I mean, you’ve got to talk to someone eventually or else—”

“Nope,” I’m quick to respond, a knee-jerk reaction. I’m not doing this right now. Don’t want to; don’t need to. Please, don’t ruin my feel-good mood, Becks. “Sometimes don’t you just want to have a little fun without complications? You know how it goes, Becks. Shit, vibrators are cool and fun, but nothing gives more satisfaction than the mighty tongue.”

He barks out a laugh, and I know I’ve chased the question away for now. “I don’t know from your perspective, but from mine, tongues are most definitely welcome.” He glances over at me with a suggestive look before shaking his head and laughing again.

“What?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “You know it’s true.” I’m about to make another smart-ass remark, but I stop when I realize we’ve just pulled into my driveway.

I grab my overnight bag from between my feet on the floor and reach for the door handle when his voice stops me. “Are you going to be okay?”

His question can be taken several ways. Am I going to ever be okay with Lexi’s death? Am I going to be okay with Rylee gone? Am I going to be okay no longer having the two people I relied on the most in my life every day?

I opt for the question I’m comfortable answering. “Okay? You mean living on my own? It’s not like Ry’s really been staying here for a while anyway. . . . Now it’s just official.” I say the words calmly, but a bittersweet feeling comes over me at the thought that my best friend will never be my roomie again. Talk about a year of changes. Shit. It’s time for the whirlwind to calm some so I can catch up to everything. “It’ll be nice to live on my own for a bit. To be able to walk around naked when I want . . . stuff like that.” I flash him a smile as I open the door and start to scoot out of the SUV with my overnight bag in one hand.

I feel like I should say something else—some parting wisdom, but nothing comes to mind. I begin to stand up when I realize my phone is still in the center console and reach back in for it. Becks grabs my wrist and startles me. My eyes flash up to meet his, and I can see the sincerity in them, the kindness, the honesty, and I’m unable to look away, no matter how much I want to. I can see so many things in his eyes, and I don’t want him to say any of them, so I try to pull my hand back, but he just holds tight.

“You know you can call me if you ever need me, right? For anything,” he says in that slow, even cadence of his that pulls at so many things deep within me, and I can’t think of a witty retort to lighten the mood.

“Okay. Thanks.” It’s all I can manage. With our eyes locked on each other’s, I reach down and fumble for my phone before exiting the car. I shut the door and exhale a sigh of relief, as I turn my back and head toward my house.

Chapter 4

I’m not sure how I’m feeling as I step inside and lean my back against the door—listening for Becks to pull out of the driveway—but once I’m inside, I take a breath for the first time in what feels like forever.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Montgomery? It was just sex. Just mind-blowing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. So get over it. Get over your thoughts of him. Move on.

My head wants to, but hell if my body does.

I drop my bag on the floor and toss my keys and phone in the basket on the table in the foyer and head toward the kitchen. I hit the button on the voice mail and tune out the telemarketer’s message as I open the fridge and look for a Diet Coke. The machine beeps, and Maddie’s voice fills the empty kitchen.

“Hi, Auntie. I hope your fancy wedding was loads of fun. I bet it was better than all of the Sour Patch Kids in the world put together. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I have the whole day planned out for us.”

I automatically smile at the sound of her voice, and my love for her swells like always. I can only imagine what her plans for us are this time. Last week it was mud pies and Barbies, with pretend tea served by Strawberry Shortcake.

The doorbell rings, and my heart immediately skips a beat at the thought it might be Becks. Maybe I left something in his car.

And why in the hell is my pulse thundering?

Crap. We really just need a little time apart so that we can let everything from last night settle and fade away. So I can let the taste and scent and sound of him dissipate from my memory.

I grab the handle and pull the door open, prepared for Becks, and am completely thrown for a loop by who stands there.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.” It’s that same gravelly voice that used to turn me inside out. Those gray eyes that can be cold as steel or soft as silk from one second to the next. That muscled torso that my fingers and mouth memorized every incredible inch of. The sight of him invokes images of wild, against-the-wall, rip-your-clothes-off sex, and at the same time, schizophrenic emotions and volatile tempers surge through my mind.

And yet his pull on me is still there, still as magnetic as ever. This is the man I once upon a time thought could be the one, could be worth the fight, until he disappeared just as quickly as he appeared.

Just like he does every time.

“What do you want, Dante?” I huff out a breath and put my hands on my hips.

“What, no kiss? No hug? That’s all the welcome I get?” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, his biceps bulging, and he leans a shoulder against the doorjamb. I try not to look twice at the new ink peaking up from under the collar of his shirt, but I find myself wondering what he chose this time. My eyes rise from his neck to his face when he runs his free hand up and over his goatee. Between the smirk on his lips, and the look in his eyes, I swear he does it on purpose to evoke thoughts of how exactly that patch of hair can tease and tempt me when positioned between my thighs.

I take hold of my thoughts and am able to recall the hurt he inflicted on me, which still scars me deep inside. “You’re lucky that your welcome doesn’t include a swift kick in the nuts.” I fold my arms across my chest and raise an eyebrow at him.

He laughs, that arrogant smirk strengthening the intensity that always etches his face. “Ah, there’s my girl, spirited as fuck, just how I like you.”

“I’m not your girl. You lost the chance to call me that when you walked away without a word.” I absently look over his shoulder at the neighbor kid running down the sidewalk, before looking back at him.

“You afraid lover boy’s going to come back and get pissed I’m standing here?”

“Lover boy?”

He lifts his chin. “Yeah. That your boyfriend who dropped you off? You switching things up, Had? Going from the reckless to the refined?”

I laugh. Beckett refined? That’s not exactly the first word that comes to mind, but I guess in Dante’s view, Becks’s lack of tattoos makes him just that.

“He’s just a friend, and besides, what he is or isn’t is none of your damn business.”

“You’re always my business.”

I snort in response. Does he actually think that he can show up on my doorstep after disappearing over a year ago and that I’d welcome him with open arms? “C’mon, babe, are you really going to bust my balls? Besides, you know how much I like it when you’re rough with me,” he teases, trying to get to me in that way that always seemed to work before.

But I’ve been here, done this, and don’t plan on having a repeat performance. Heartbreak is not my thing.

“What do you want?”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I’m back in town.”

“Good for you. What for? Chasing the dream fail or something?”

He laughs with a shake of his head, his dimples deepening. “Babe, I’m always chasing something. . . .”

“Yeah, but chasing tail and chasing dreams are two entirely different things.”

He takes a step toward me, and I take one back, leery of him getting too close, the proven weakness in my armored heart. “I wasn’t that bad,” he says softly. “We were good together.”

I bat away his hand when he reaches out to touch my arm. “Yeah, and the good was only about twenty percent of the time,” I tell him. “I seem to remember the other eighty percent a whole helluva lot more.”

“But that twenty percent? I’ve got fond memories of that twenty percent.” He grins at me, trying to get me to remember the damn good sex we used to have. I figure I’ll beat him to the punch.

“I don’t.” I lie without batting an eyelash since he’s the king of telling untruths.

He stares at me for a moment before taking another step toward me. I tell myself not to be affected, and then of course his cologne hits me, causing memories to surge to the forefront of my mind. “It seems you’ve gotten all hard on me, babe.”

And I can’t help it: My mind immediately flashes to last night. The word hard makes me think of the look on Becks’s face when he wanted to prove just how hard he was. I shake my head and exhale in exasperation, thinking about how different Becks and this man in front of me are.

But both dangerous.

He tilts his head down, smile still in place, and looks into my eyes. “Ahhh, she’s giving in. You know you can never stay mad at me. Resistance is futile, babe.”

And I’m so pissed because he’s right. I never can. Of course, I respect myself and all that shit, and would never allow myself to go back down that path with him again, but I swear to God, Dante can make me bend my rules like no one else can. I fight the smile that threatens to curl up one corner of my mouth, knowing it’s basically useless to even try. “Dante . . .” My voice trails off, my internal war waging within me, as I try to figure out what he wants this time. “Why are you here?”

His smoldering smirk surges to a megawatt smile because he knows he’s got me now. “I need a place to crash for a bit.” His eyes darken with an unexpected solemnity that throws me, but with him, you never know what’s the truth and what’s a game.

“And you see a vacancy sign on my porch or something?”

He blows out an audible breath. Used to taking without asking, he doesn’t like having to explain anything. “C’mon, babe, I know Ry moved out.” I raise my eyebrows, causing him to pause and explain. “It’s not like speculations over her wedding details weren’t the buzz all over TMZ last night or anything.” He rolls his eyes and flashes that smile at me again, but I stand my ground, arms crossed, impatient. “I just need a couple of days, a week or two at the most, so that I can straighten some shit out.”

There is something about the way he says it—something about the stress lining his face—that has me angling my head and looking past his tough exterior and wondering what he’s really doing in town. “So, you came here? You think you’re charming enough that I’m just going to forget all of the shit from before?”

“You suck.” I almost laugh at the grade school response coming from this big, bad rebel.

Revue de presse
Praise for the Novels of K. Bromberg

"Captivating, emotional and sizzling hot!" – #1 New York Times Bestselling Author S.C. Stephens

“K. Bromberg is nothing short of an absolute genius.”—Romance Addiction

“[A] highly emotional, yet satisfying series, oh, and let me not leave out SEXY.”—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

“Well-written and with a great balance of dialogue and description.”—Love Between the Sheets

“An emotionally charged, adrenaline-filled, steamy, and passionate read....K. Bromberg deliver[s].”—TotallyBookedBlog

NIGHT STUDY Chapter Eleven - Janco

"What's your rush?" Maren asked.

Janco hustled her along the hallways of the castle. The need to hurry pulsed in his veins. "Something's not right," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Outside Valek's office. That darkness was...odd...weird. I felt strong magic. And his knife was on the floor. Didn't you see it?"

"No. I was—"

"Too busy sleeping. And that was strange, too."

"Yeah, I guess." Maren remained quiet for a while. "Do you think something happened to Valek?"

Did he? He considered the clues. "Yes."

"But he's immune to magic."

Janco forgot that Maren didn't know about the null shields. No time to explain it to her. "Yeah, well Owen could have shot him with a dart of Curare."

"Where are we going?"

"To get Ari. We need reinforcements."

"You need a couple magicians to fight them."

"Ari's got the best aim with the blowpipe. Curare works on magicians, too."

"But can't that one guy move objects with his magic? A dart wouldn't reach him."

Janco skidded to a stop. "Oh, hell."

"And I'm sure they're gone by now."

They wouldn't wait for Janco to figure it out and return. What to do? Janco closed his eyes. He ejected his chaotic thoughts, suppressed his worry and fear for Valek, and concentrated on the logic. If Owen killed Valek, the Commander would be upset, but if Valek disappeared... But he couldn't hide a dead body, it would stink after a few days. They could smuggle the body outside the castle by hiding it with an illusion. Too risky. Maybe they planned to keep him locked up. But where? And would they risk the possibility of Valek escaping? Probably not. This was going nowhere. He switched his line of thought. Where was the one place the Commander had said was off limits? The guest suites! Janco opened his eyes.

Maren waited with her arms crossed. "Got something, genius?"

He ignored the insult. "Come on." Janco ran and didn't bother to check if Maren followed or not.

Ari jumped to his feet when Janco burst into their apartment. "What's wrong?"

Janco raced to his room, grabbed his bag of tricks, and dashed back. "Reema stay here. Ari come on."

"Weapons?" Ari asked.

"Got'um. Let's go!"

Maren remained in the hall. Janco shot passed her, heading to the nearest stairwell. Her and Ari's pounding footsteps sounded behind him.

"Are you going to tell me what's this about?" Ari asked him.

"He thinks Valek's in trouble," Maren answered.

"Thinks?"

Maren explained about the oddness in the hallway outside Valek's office. It didn't take Ari long to reach the same conclusion.

"The three of us can't fight three magicians," Ari said.

Janco reached the stairs and bounded up them three at a time. At the fourth floor, he stopped, putting his hand up to signal all quiet. He peered down the hall. Empty. Giving Maren and Ari the wait signal, he crept down the corridor until he reached the turn that would lead to the guest quarters. A quick peek confirmed no one lurked in the shadows. But a creepy crawly sensation brushed his skin. Magic nearby. Lovely. At least it wasn't the sharp pain of an active illusion. Janco returned to his friends. He explained his plan in a whisper then dug into his bag of tricks. Ari raised his eyebrows when Janco handed him a blowpipe and darts.

"Just in case," Janco said. Then he gave Maren the most important item. "Make sure it gets as close to the action as possible."

"What if there's no action?" she asked.

"Then we find it," Ari said. "No stopping until Valek's safe."

Janco flashed his partner a grin. While Maren might doubt him, Ari was all in.

In silence, they ghosted through the hallway. When they reached the door to the guest suites, Janco knelt on one knee. He twisted the knob. Locked. Janco whipped out his lock picks. Using the one with the mirror, he inserted it under the door and confirmed no one guarded the door. A cool breeze blew over his hand and voices murmured from inside. "A window is open," Janco whispered. "We'll have to move fast."

Inserting his diamond pick and tension wrench into the lock, he aligned the pins in record time and slowly turned the cylinder. Even though every nerve tingled with the desire to hurry, he eased open the door. It about killed him to move that slow. Owen, Tyen, and Rika stood in front of the window with their backs to the door, talking. Strange, but good fortune for him. Where was Valek? He scanned the rest of the room.

"...Valek," Owen said.

Janco's gaze jumped back to the others and he spotted his boss through a gap between Tyen and Rika. Valek sat on the ledge with Owen gripping his shoulders, talking to him. Pushing the door wider, Janco entered the room and signaled Ari and Maren to follow.

Owen said, "...Yelena's next."

"Now!" he yelled at Maren.

The three magicians whipped around just as she threw a glass ball at their feet. It shattered on impact. A knockout gas hissed from the broken shards, fogging the area. But the breeze from the outside would soon clear the air. Then they'd have three pissed off magicians. Owen and the others stumbled to the ground. "Ari!" Janco pointed to the prone magicians. "Curare."

But Ari raced through the fog to the window instead. The empty window! Sh*t. Fear burned in his gut. Janco held his breath and dashed after Ari. His partner leaned out. Oh no. Janco joined him, preparing to see the worst.

Ari held Valek's arm as the man dangled in mid-air. The big man's arm muscles strained with effort. Janco reached for Valek's other arm. Together they heaved their boss into the room.

"They're reviving," Maren yelled.

"Go," Valek ordered.

They sprinted for the door and didn't stop until they reached Valek's suite. Valek unlocked the door. Or tried. His hands shook and the key rattled in the lock. Ari nudged Valek aside and finished the task. The housekeeper had lit the lanterns, but the main living area was empty. Valek called for Yelena. He raced up the stairs then returned a few minutes later wild-eyed and frantic. "She isn't here. Owen said she's next. We need to search the castle!"

Ari blocked Valek. "Owen didn't have time to set a trap for her."

"But what if he's looking for her right now?" Valek tried to push pass, but Ari clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"He won't just grab her in front of witnesses. He'll have to plan. Let's just take a moment and think. Okay?" Ari guided him to the couch.

Valek just about collapsed into the cushions. Concerned by his boss's stunned expression, Janco rummaged for the good stuff in Valek's corner cabinet. No one said a word as Janco poured healthy shots of whiskey into four glasses. He handed one to each. They clinked the glasses together and downed the alcohol in one gulp. Fire burned his throat and warmed his stomach. Janco refilled the glasses.

Valek stared into his, swirling the amber liquid around. "That's the closest I've come to..." He pulled in a deep breath, then raised his glass to them. "Thank you."

"Thank Janco," Maren said. "He's the one who figured it out."

"Yeah, but I couldn't have done anything without you and Ari."

"We're a team. This is what we do," Ari said.

They drank. This time Janco sipped his.

"Now we can concentrate on finding Yelena," Ari said. "Has anyone seen her since she returned from her ride with Reema?"

No one had.

"We'll divide the castle into sections and each take one," Valek said.

"No can do," Janco said. "If one of us runs into Owen or his goons, we'll be in trouble." He scratched his goatee. "We should stay together. Let's list the places she most likely would be." He glanced at the dark windows. "Supper's over. How about the washroom?"

"Or she could have gone to say good-bye to Reema and found her alone," Ari said.

Valek stood. The whiskey appeared to have steadied him. "Let's go."

They left the suite. As they headed down to the washrooms, Janco asked Valek, "Are you going to report the attack to the Commander?"

"No. Owen will spin a tale about how I tried to sneak into his rooms."

"But we saw—"

"What exactly?" Valek asked.

Janco recalled the scene in the guest suite. "He had his hands on your shoulders."

"Which he'll claim he was trying to help me. You didn't witness my abduction. All you had to go on was a creepy feeling in a dark hallway. No. It would be pointless to report the incident to the Commander."

"How did he manage to capture you?" Maren asked.

Valek exchanged a look with Ari. The big guy nodded and Valek explained to Maren about the null shields.

It didn't take her long to understand the danger. "So that means he can trap you at anytime?"

"Unfortunately. And he can also suffocate me with that blasted shield." Valek increased his pace.

Janco wished he brought the bottle of whiskey along as they checked the washroom, then their apartment where they found Reema curled up in a chair fast asleep. They searched the stables, the kennels, and visited Yelena's friend Dilana, the seamstress. With every stop, Janco's alarm grew two-fold.

They visited Valek's office just in case. Valek's knife remained in the hallway. He picked it up and a murderous expression settled on his face. If Owen had been standing there, no doubt Valek would have rammed the blade into his black heart.

While there were plenty of places left to look, there was no logical reason Yelena would visit them.

"Owen must have her," Valek said in a deadly tone. "I'll kill him."

When five o’clock rolled around, I took the elevator up to the heart of Cross Industries. As the car made the swift climb, my pulse rose along with it. After spending the last few days avoiding the one thing in the world I couldn’t resist, I was now going directly to him.

The freedom of that was exhilarating.

I sashayed off the elevator on the top floor, humming a tune. I even flashed a genuine smile at the receptionist as I waited for her to buzz me through the glass security doors. There was a second where I registered the way she looked at me with distaste, then I brushed it off. There were a lot of people who didn’t want me with Gideon.

They could all go fuck themselves. Asshats.

I also registered the ways heads turned to follow me as I made my way toward Gideon’s office. Curious gazes. I couldn’t blame them. For one, I was practically dancing on my feet at the end of the business day, when the frenetic pace of working in the city left most New Yorkers drained. And two, Gideon Cross was an enigma. Everyone wanted to know what his private life was like and I was the core of that.

When I turned the corner into the reception area of Gideon’s office, Scott stood to greet me. Sharply dressed in a pale blue dress shirt and crisp navy slacks, he was the first salvo in the impressive arsenal of impressions one received when meeting with Gideon.

Beyond him was the wall of glass that separated Gideon’s office from the rest of the floor. When it was clear, visitors could see Gideon at work against the backdrop of Manhattan, his tall and powerfully lean body dominating the eye despite the multimillion-dollar view framing him. Right then, though, the glass was opaque, which slowed my stride.

“Is he busy?” I asked.

But Scott had already picked up the phone. “Miss Tramell is here for you, Mr. Cross.”

And just like that, the door glided open and invited me in.

I smiled. “Thanks, Scott.”

His eyes sparkled. “Anytime.”

With renewed excitement, I walked into Gideon’s office. Then I pulled up short again. He wasn’t alone.

Gideon half-sat on the front edge of his desk, his powerful thighs straining the flawless fit of his black trousers. His suit jacket hung in its usual place on the coatrack, leaving him dressed in a sleek black vest and pristine white button-down shirt. The tips of his inky hair brushed his collar and the sculpted line of his jaw, the perfect frame for that incomparable face that was instantly recognizable to anyone.

In his hand, he held a photo. And standing close enough to brush against him was Corinne Giroux, the woman he’d almost married. She was as leggy and striking as my husband, her hair as dark and glossy, her face classically beautiful. She wore a red strapless dress, showing off skin that was like rich pale cream.

I hated how the sight of her made my stomach knot. She wasn’t a threat. I knew that. It was my own insecurities that weakened me. But I was working on that.

Corinne’s head lifted and her aqua gaze settled on me. The line of her lips tightened for a moment, then curved into a razor sharp smile. “Hello, Eva.”

Gideon unfolded in the way he had that was both powerfully elegant and dangerously sexy. He dropped the photo in a small red box sitting on his desk and came toward me, his long legs eating the distance between us.

Angel.

He didn’t speak aloud, but I saw his lips form the word, felt the impact of it in the way he looked at me. His hand reached for mine, squeezing.

I shifted to look past him. “Corinne.”

She was reaching for her purse, which had been resting on the desktop next to the box. “I have to run. Those copies are for you, Gideon.”

I could tell from the weight of it that his gaze never left my face. “Take them with you.” The rough velvet of his voice shivered through me. “I don’t want them.”

“You should finish going through them,” she said, approaching.

“Why?” He glanced at her when she drew abreast of us, his blue eyes as sharply cold as shards of ice. “If I have any interest in seeing them, I can always find them in your book.”

Her smile tightened again. “Good-bye, Eva. Gideon.”

She left, leaving behind a thick tension. It was hard for me, imagining them enclosed together in Gideon’s office, the glass frosted for privacy as they looked at images of their time together.

Gideon took another step toward me, bringing our bodies together so that even a sheet of paper couldn’t slide between us. He caught my other hand, his head bowed over me.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured, his lips brushing my forehead. “I miss you so much.”

The depth of his love was conveyed in his tone and I sank into it, my eyes closing.

His grip on my hands tightened. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I just wasn’t expecting to see her.”

“Neither was I.” He backed away, holding onto my hands until the growing distance pulled us apart. His reluctance to let me go, to move away, mirrored how I felt. A sense of desperation was there, heavy and painful. The time we’d spent apart had rocked us both.

I watched him walk to the desk, put a lid on the box, and then drop it into the trash. I won’t lie; I wanted to see them. The desire to do that was so strong I had to fight the urge to reclaim the box.

But I didn’t. For the same reason I forbade Gideon from watching the video of my time with Brett. Our exes were in our pasts and they were going to stay there.

Which didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to have a few words with Corinne.

Gideon hit the control that closed his office door again.

“I quit my job,” I told him. “Friday’s my last day.”

His face gave nothing away, but something hot flared in his gaze. “Did you?”

“Yep.”

He returned to the position he’d been in when I entered, leaning back against the smoked glass of his desk. “What’s next for you, then?”

“I’ve got a wedding to plan.” And some loose ends to tie up. But we’d get to those later.

“Ah.” A small smile touched his mouth and sent tingles racing through my veins. “Good to know.”

He beckoned me closer with a crook of his finger.

“Meet me halfway,” I countered.

We met in the middle of the room.

“Is this what you want?” he asked me quietly, his gaze searching my face.

“You’re what I want. The rest is just logistics.”

He wet his lips with a slow swipe of his tongue and I nearly moaned aloud. Staying out of his bed was going to kill me, but it had to be done.

Still, I couldn’t resist lifting my hand to brush an errant strand of his hair back from his forehead. When I realized what I was doing I tried to stop, knowing that every touch sent us down a dangerous path of temptation.

Gideon caught my wrist in mid-air. A heartbeat later his cheek was pressed against my palm, his eyes closed as he absorbed my touch. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of my perfume.

Abruptly, the strain that had tightened his posture left him. I felt it slip away. More, I felt something shift inside me, too. The power of it sent me reeling.

With a single touch we could center each other.

This was what we had. What we were fighting for.

And we were going to win.

I had to be stronger. Smarter. Scarier. Our adversaries were focused on Gideon as a threat. i had to start showing people that they needed to worry about me to

"- N’oublie pas, il faut que personne ne te voie.
Phoenix serra les dents pour retenir une réplique cinglante. Prendre l’avion était assez risqué, même avec un jet privé car il était plus que probable que Finn ait placé des hommes dans la plupart des aéroports de la région. Il n’y avait pas trop d’endroit où se cacher dans un appareil et il était difficile de survivre à une roquette, même pour un vampire. De fait, l’ange nocturne était le seul à pouvoir se déplacer sans danger sur de longues distances à travers le pays et il devenait nécessaire de sortir de leur cachette pour que les membres de la nouvelle résistance puissent voir de leurs propres yeux l’un de leurs chefs ; un peu comme une armée ayant besoin, pour retrouver le moral, de voir son général avant la bataille. Par ailleurs, Phoenix éprouvait encore une certaine méfiance vis-à-vis de l’informatique donc il trouvait plus sage de communiquer les informations vitales en personne, ce qui semblait être le cas dans la poche de résistance de ///////.
- Je sais, Blodwyn.
Il avait essayé de répondre avec le moins d’ironie possible. Après tout, cela ne faisait que cinq-cents ans qu’il s’employait à ce que personne ne le voie en train de voler ! Il ne manquerait plus que les journaux de bas étage ne fassent la mention d’un OVNI dans le ciel de ///////// en plus de toutes les choses bizarres qui s’y déroulaient en temps normal…
- Finn aura des agents à ///////. D’après les rapport de l’ancien chef de secteur de la ville, les vampires nostalgiques de la traditionnelle morsure sur les humains s’étaient récemment regroupés en un petit comité contestataire. C’était notre prochaine mission après ton procès…
Blodwyn n’alla pas plus loin. Inutile, ils avaient tous compris que ce petit comité avait dû participer à l’avènement du chaos.
- Rassurez-vous, j’ai donné rendez-vous à nos contacts à Central Park, à minuit. Il nous suffira d’éliminer les oreilles indiscrètes éventuelles pour être sûrs que le coin est désert.
Angela fronça les sourcils.
- Tu veux tuer tous les types qui seraient sur place ? Tu es fou !
- Qui crois-tu qui se balade dans les coins les plus sombres de Central Park à minuit, Angela ?! Des sœurs de la charité ?
- Ce sont des humains ! s’énerva-t-elle. Je croyais que tu étais de notre côté !
Il sentit la moutarde lui monter au nez.
- Ce sont des violeurs et des bandits, si tu les ranges de ton côté c’est que tu as un problème !
- Mon problème est la façon dont tu envisages de trucider des gens comme si tu allais faire tes courses. Que penserait Sam de ton plan ?
Ses lèvres se retroussèrent sur ses crocs, comme à chaque fois qu’on mentionnait le nom de sa compagne disparue devant lui.
- Ne me parle pas de ce que Sam aurait pensé comme si tu la connaissais mieux que moi ! Tu n’étais pas là quand elle a mutilé deux violeurs qui l’avaient attaquée ou quand elle a enfoncé un couteau dans le cœur d’un vampire qui s’amusait à enlever des enfants pour leur prendre leur sang !
Si elle parut choquée d’apprendre ce que Sam ne lui avait à priori pas confié, elle n’en démordait pas moins :
- Si tu te comportes comme Finn, tu finiras par être comme lui ! François, dis-le-lui !
L’intéressé ne pipa mot, ce qui fit exploser sa femme.
- Très bien ! Faites ce que vous voulez de ces criminels mais ne venez pas vous plaindre après qu’on ait fait brûler des gens comme vous au Moyen-Âge.
Elle partit, suivie de Danny, Ginger et Valérie. Ne restaient plus dans le salon que Talanus, Ysis, Blodwyn et Matthew.
L’attitude posée de ce dernier étonnait Phoenix alors qu’en tant que chef du Cercle de Mellindra, il aurait dû se ranger du côté d’Angela. Il prit la parole.
- Je ne serai pas aussi radical que mon amie quant à la nécessité de préserver la vie des voyous qui sévissent dans les bois mais elle a raison sur un point. Vous combattez Finn parce qu’il ne respecte pas l’équilibre entre les espèces ; si vous tuez des humains sans vous poser la question du bien ou du mal, vous reniez tous les principes du Grand Changement.
- Le Grand Changement a été instauré pour éviter que les humains ne découvrent notre existence, dit Blodwyn.
- Je doute que ce secret dure éternellement et vous le saviez pertinemment en instaurant cette loi et en négociant avec mes ancêtres. Vous vouliez qu’en cas de fin du Secret, les meurtres d’humains apparaissent comme de simples légendes qui ne susciteraient pas la mise en place d’une chasse aux sorcières que vous ne seriez pas en position d’empêcher malgré vos pouvoirs.
Blodwyn se tut et étudia Matthew d’un œil nouveau. Si Phoenix n’avait pas plus important à faire que de discuter sur des sujets stériles, il se serait peut-être interrogé plus avant sur la lueur fugace mais vive qui s’était allumée dans les prunelles de sa supérieure pendant l’examen de son interlocuteur.
- Nous ferions mieux de nous concentrer sur ce qui nous intéresse, non ?
- Non, Phoenix. Angela et Matthew ont raison, nous battre ne suffit pas. Il faut nous battre avec honneur.
Il leva les yeux au ciel mais s’abstint de tout commentaire. Si Angela avait une idée du traitement qu’il réservait à Finn quand il lui aurait mis la main dessus, elle aurait vraiment de quoi dire que son comportement n’était pas honorable. Il n’en avait rien à faire de l’honneur désormais mais il se rappela que Sam voulait effectivement rétablir le Grand Changement dans ses valeurs les plus positives.
Il soupira.
- Très bien. Je ne tuerai pas d’humains inutilement sauf absolue nécessité.
- J’y veillerai, dit François en le regardant droit dans les yeux.
Aussitôt, les muscles de Phoenix se tendirent par la contrariété. Comment ça, « jy veillerai » ? Il le soutenait pourtant tout à l’heure face à sa femme !
- Mais bon Dieu, qu’est-ce que tu… ?
- Je viens avec toi.
Il ricana.
- Parce que tu t’es découvert le don de voler, toi aussi ?
- Tu es largement capable de me porter sur une longue distance et il te faut quelqu’un pour surveiller tes arrières.
- Je croyais que c’était moi que tu voulais surveiller ?
Son sarcasme laissa François de marbre. Celui-ci semblait réellement déterminé à s’incruster dans ce voyage, enrageait-il ! Ne pouvait-il pas pour une fois cesser d’incarner la voix de sa conscience ? À coup sûr, son ami n’allait pas se priver pour le sermonner s’il se libérait de sa tension nerveuse en massacrant quelques imbéciles qui auraient le culot de l’attaquer ! Phoenix n’était pas censé aller à ////// pour se faire remarquer en faisant du ménage dans les rangs de Finn sur place mais son intention était bien là, et personne ne l’en dissuaderait ! Pas même ce sacro-saint mousquetaire du Roi Soleil dont il regrettait le temps où sa conversation équivalait à celle d’une carpe dans un étang !
- Je n’ai pas besoin de toi, trancha-t-il, son agressivité montante transperçant dans sa voix au velours mortel.
- C’est justement pour ça que je viens, parce que tu crois que tu n’as pas besoin de moi.
Phoenix s’approcha de François qui restait totalement immobile. L’atmosphère devint subitement très lourde.
- Je viens de te dire que je ne voulais pas que tu m’accompagnes. Soit tu es sourd, soit tu es sourd et stupide…
Son ami se contenta de croiser les bras contre sa poitrine et de le défier du regard. C’était exactement le genre de chose que Sam aurait faite et en un éclair il la vit face à lui en train de le traiter de malotru mal embouché (il avait noté qu’elle semblait apprécier l’emploi de ces termes pour le désigner quand ils entamaient l’une de leurs nombreuses disputes). Cette vision, autant que le comportement de François lui fit perdre son sang-froid et il se prépara à lui sauter dessus…
Heureusement pour lui, Talanus s’interposa :
- Paix, Phoenix !
Bien, son chef de secteur allait lui permettre de mener sa mission comme il l’entendait, sans baby-sitter pour le chaperonner ! Enfin quelqu’un de sensé ici !
- François Caron a raison. Il vaut mieux que quelqu’un vienne avec toi pour te couvrir.
Phoenix ne put empêcher ses crocs de s’allonger et ses yeux de s’embraser. Fut un temps où Talanus ne rechignait pas à pulvériser les importuns sur son chemin…
- Vous ne me faites pas confiance ?! gronda-t-il.
- Là n’est pas la question. Selon les informations que vont te livrer nos hommes à //////, il se peut que tu aies besoin d’intervenir sur place. François t’aidera dans cette entreprise.
Phoenix fixait Talanus comme pour voir au travers. Le général romain n’était pas le plus diplomates des vampires qu’il avait côtoyés, de fait, il n’arrivait pas à déterminer si son assertion était la vérité ou une manœuvre pour pousser son ange à accepter sa requête tout en ménageant son ego.
C’est alors qu’il se redressa et reporta son attention vers son ami mousquetaire :
- On s’en va dans une heure. Si tu n’es pas sur le perron, je pars sans toi.
François hocha simplement la tête avant de quitter le bureau, pour annoncer la nouvelle à sa femme. Son cœur se serra. Angela n’empêcherait pas son mari de prendre des risques en allant à /////// avec lui. Elle avait confiance en son époux comme lui avait confiance en Samantha quand elle lui avait promis qu’elle était capable d’attendre son retour après qu’il eut mis Blodwyn en sécurité. Il chassa rapidement cette pensée…
Ayant reçu un ordre, Phoenix ne pouvait qu’obéir à ses supérieurs et emmener cet encombrant redresseur de torts avec lui, néanmoins, même si son ami avait tendance parfois à lui taper sur les nerfs, il s’arrangerait pour que ce dernier revienne indemne vers sa femme, quitte à ce que lui y laisse la vie, et puisse rejoindre la sienne…"

"Mon nom est Rylee, je suis la Traqueuse."

Quand des enfants disparaissent et que les humains n'ont pas de piste, je suis celle qu'ils appellent. Je suis leur dernière chance de les ramener à la maison. Je sauve ce qu'ils ne peuvent pas.

Alors que la nuit tombe, mon cœur sent comme si il n'allait jamais pouvoir être réparé. Mais il y a trop de vies qui reposent sur ma capacité de fonctionner au mieux.

Alors je fais avec. Et je découvre qu'il me reste de la combativité.

A présent, il me reste une dernière tâche à accomplir avant de pouvoir me reposer: je dois trouver les ingrédients du sort. Un sort qui pourra aider à guérir nombre de mes blessures.

Mais ce ne sont seulement pas mes blessures que je dois refermer. Celles de ma sœur se sont ouvertes...et peut être plus surprenant encore, celles d'un autre vampire aussi.

"My name is Rylee, and I am a Tracker."



When children go missing, and the Humans have no leads, I'm the one they call. I am their last hope in bringing home the lost ones. I salvage what they cannot.



When the dust settles, my heart feels as though it will never be pieced back together. But there are too many lives riding on my ability to function at my best.



So I push through. And I find that I still have some fight left in me.



Now I have one last task before I can rest: to find the simple ingredients of a spell. A spell that will help heal much of my wounds.



But it is not only my injuries that I have to stitch closed. My sister's wounds have broken open . . . and perhaps most surprising of all so do another vampire's.

“My name is Rylee and I am a Tracker.”

When children go missing, and the Humans have no leads, I’m the one they call. I am their last hope in bringing home the lost ones. I salvage what they cannot.

One last salvage and the final battle with Orion and the demon hordes will be upon me. I don't know the name of the person I'm Tracking, or what she looks like so finding her is going to be . . . impossible. But she is the key to defeating the demons.

The world has been swept with a plague that is killing not only the humans, but every supernatural it touches. While I’m out Tracking, my allies are being wiped out.

Worse than all of this? I am losing Pamela to the darkness with every second that passes.

I'm not sure even I can control any of these outcomes

But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try.

"Vraiment ? et qui d'autre va croire que ta balle a décidée seule de merder sur sa trajectoire pour tuer ton partenaire ? Qui d'autre va croire qu'on t'a jeté un sort qui affecte tes émotions, ton habilité à réfléchir clairement, sans parler de ton self contrôle ?"
IL pâlit et s'assit sur son lit.
je secouais ma tête. "Je ne serais pas longue. Ne bouge pas et surtout ne tue pas Alex, ça m'énerverait vraiment ça, et en cet instant je suis ta seule amie en ce monde complètement dingue. "

CHAPTER ONE

Life in the Fast Lane

Early March
Chicago, Illinois

Blood_GamesHe stood beside me as cameras flashed, a man with a long and lean body, deeply green eyes, and golden hair. He wore shorts, sneakers, and a long-sleeved shirt that snugged against the tight muscles of his torso. His hair, which normally brushed his shoulders, was pulled back in a queue, and around his neck glinted the silver pendant that marked him as a Cadogan vampire.

But he wasn’t just a vampire. Ethan Sullivan was Master of Cadogan House.

Even in running shoes, hands on his hips as he stood beneath the yellow arch that marked the starting line, a clock counting down to zero a few feet away, his Masterdom was undeniable. He looked nothing less than a leader of his people.

He glanced at me, an eyebrow arched in his usual imperious expression. “Sentinel. You appear to be enjoying this a little too much.”

I pulled my long dark hair into a ponytail using the elastic on my wrist, my long bangs across my forehead. I was also dressed in running attire—a Cadogan House Track shirt, midcalf running tights, and shoes in eye-searing neon orange that made me smile when I looked at them. But the apparel wasn’t just fun; it was functional. It had to be if I was going to achieve my goal: beating Ethan Sullivan to the finish line.

“It’s not every day I get the chance to best you in front of an audience.”

Ethan snorted, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t plan to let you best me, Sentinel. But I’m prepared to make it interesting.”

There was heat in his eyes that nearly made me blush. But since we had an audience, I held it in. “How interesting?”

“Dinner. Of the winner’s choosing.”

As a lover of food, I didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“I wasn’t finished,” he said with a sly smile. “Dinner of the winner’s choosing—in the apparel of the winner’s choosing.”

“I do enjoy seeing you in jeans,” I countered. He generally preferred fancy to casual, but even he couldn’t run in a refined French suit and Italian loafers. But if the look in his eyes was any indication, he hadn’t intended denim, leather, or wool.

He only snorted in response.

It was March in Chicago, and the air still carried the chill of winter. But spring had nearly broken winter’s hold, and a thousand people stood on the sidelines to watch the Cadogan Dash, a race we’d organized to raise money for Chicago’s food bank.

I was the House’s social chair, and I’d been reminded recently about the importance of giving back. So I decided a charity event was just the thing, which was why we were standing in Grant Park on a brisk spring night, preparing to run three miles with a few hundred friends. While Malik, the second-in-command of the House, stayed behind (and separate from Ethan for succession purposes), others gathered in their running gear for a little friendly competition. Luc, the Cadogan guard captain, with his dark blond locks. Connor, a young vampire of my class with the easygoing personality of casual wealth. Brody, a new Cadogan guard with mile-long legs that were probably going to come in handy tonight.

But that didn’t mean the race was just fun and games.

Times had been tough for Chicago’s supernaturals, but humans’ attitudes had seemed to improve over the last few weeks. Ethan had been cleared of charges he’d killed a vampire in cold blood; it had been obvious self-defense, since we’d been attacked at Cadogan House. My grandfather, Chuck Merit, was once again the city’s official Supernatural Ombudsman, helping vampires, shifters, River nymphs, and the like with their various problems. And once again, the fickle pendulum of human emotion had swung to love. Sure, there were vampire detractors. Vampire haters. Vampire conspiracy theorists. But there were also members of the Ethan Sullivan fan club.

Most of the human spectators who’d crowded behind the barrier wore T-shirts bearing Ethan’s image and i heart ethan buttons. But much to my surprise, Ethan wasn’t the only Cadogan vamp with fans in the audience. There were a few fans carrying hand-painted i heart merit signs and wearing #1 sentinel T-shirts, which was cool, if a little unnerving.

A woman on the other side of the barricade held out a glossy eight-by-ten photograph and a permanent marker. “Ethan! Ethan! Can I have your autograph?” Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes wide with promise.

“Your fans await,” I said with a smile.

“You’re my favorite fan,” he said, and in full view of the cameras, spectators, and news vans, he kissed me.

By the time he straightened again, my cheeks were pink and Ethan’s admirers were screaming with gusto. Apparently it didn’t matter whom the golden god kissed—the sight of him kissing was enough to send them into a frenzy.

Given the look of intensity in their eyes, I doubted they’d have felt any compunction about kicking me out of the way to get a little closer to him.

“Go ahead,” I told him. “Go see your admirers. Sign some autographs. It’s good PR for the House.”

He slid me a glance, smiled. “Not concerned one of the fans will try to sweep me away with words of love?”

“Oh, they’ll try to sweep,” I said. “But I have no worries you’ll come back to me.”

His smile was meltingly handsome. “Because I love you without measure?”

“Of course,” I said.

Also, I had the car keys.

We needed the good PR while we could get it. I had a sinking suspicion the tide would turn again; humans always looked for scapegoats. Supernaturals made easy targets.

Humans weren’t our only problem. Cadogan House had recently left the Greenwich Presidium, the European council of vampires that ruled European and North American vampires—but we hadn’t left behind the drama. The GP was a hot mess. Some council members hated our House; others hated humans. It was an organization generally out of touch with the modern world.

And Ethan, who’d moved forward to commune with the crowd, was petitioning to take charge of it. He’d filed the paperwork a week ago. Which was awkward, since the GP already had a leader—Darius West, a powerful vampire whose unfortunate involvement with an American serial killer had stunted him emotionally, an impressive feat for an immortal. After ensuring the House and its finances were in order, Ethan announced his candidacy, and we’d heard nothing in the interim.

Darius had options. Vampires loved rules, and the Canon, the volumes of vampire law, laid out three official responses to Ethan’s “Honorable Challenge.” (Vampires also liked capitalizing things.) According to the Canon, Darius could give back snarky words, a response “by Wit,” which I imagined would have been something like “Bring it” or “You just got served.” Darius could challenge Ethan to a duel, presumably by katana, since that was the favored vampire weapon, or by “account of All Houses,” which basically meant that Darius could call out all the other vampire Houses to gang up on ours.

He hadn’t done any of those things yet, and the silence was more unnerving than an outright attack would have been. In the interim, Ethan called the Masters of the Houses that allied with Cadogan—whose insignia were mounted above the Cadogan House door—shoring up his support.

We’d decided to move forward with the race, but we were certainly, obviously keeping a close eye on Ethan. Because I was Sentinel of the House, his safety was one of my priorities. And I had allies in the crowd: my grandfather’s employees—Catcher Bell, a sorcerer, and Jeff Christopher, a shifter—as well as the undercover members of the Red Guard, an organization of vampires created to keep watch on the GP and the twelve American vampire Masters.

Catcher’s girlfriend and my non-vampire best pal, Mallory Carmichael—a sorceress in her own right—stood with Jeff and Catcher, her blue ombré hair in a high topknot, a small Cadogan pennant in her hand. She waved the pennant at me, her blue eyes smiling, and gave me a very enthusiastic thumbs-up.

The RG members wore Midnight High School T-shirts to indicate their affiliation. They included my tall, handsome, and auburn-haired RG partner, Jonah, who stood near a woman vigorously shaking her décolletage at Ethan as he signed autographs. I gave the woman the stink eye, but her gaze skimmed right over me. I wasn’t the object of her affection.

“They just pretend we aren’t here.”

I chuckled at the vampire beside me, a woman with a blond ponytail, hot pink shirt, and black running tights that skimmed her long legs. She was Lindsey, one of Cadogan’s guards and Luc’s sweetheart. And Luc had plenty of fans of his own, men and women who giggled each time he flipped his tousled curls out of his eyes. From the cheeky grin on his face, he didn’t seem to mind the attention.

“The humans or the vampires?” I said.

Lindsey snorted. “Good question. I’m not sure Luc could pick me out of a lineup right now. Especially not when she’s showing off the kids.” She nodded toward a woman with pendulous cleavage and luclicious tattooed in black script across her chest.

“He’s never going to stop talking about that,” I agreed.

“At least you have your own fans. There’s one very delectable man who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. Your two o’clock,” she said, and I glanced casually over.

He had dark skin and a shaved head, a sprinkling of goatee beneath his generous mouth. His eyes were wide set and deeply brown. There was a small crescent-shaped tattoo near the corner of his left eye.

His gaze was direct, curious, and focused on me.

I looked back at Lindsey, mouth open. “He is stunning.”

She nodded. “See? Fans of your own. As long as Ethan doesn’t see him and beat him to a bloody pulp for staring at you, we’re good. And even if he does,” Lindsey said with a grin, stretching out one calf, then the other, “your backup fan club is right over there.” She gestured to the Ombuddies, as we called Jeff and Catcher.

“They aren’t fans; they’re family.” Maybe not genetically, but certainly in spirit. And considering Catcher’s yes, i hate everybody T-shirt, despite their personality quirks.

“Besides. They’re on the job.”

“Speaking of, any twinges?”

Vampires preferred to fight with katanas, and my own weapon had been tempered with my blood, giving me the ability to sense other weapons nearby. I’d mentally calibrated my senses to ignore the hidden blades carried by the RG members, and thus far, the crowd was clean.

“Nope,” I said, scanning the bystanders, who smiled and snapped pictures. “All’s well so far. Hopefully it will stay that way.”

Lindsey snorted. “Darling, we’re vampires. It will definitely not stay that way.”

An unfortunate but valid point.

“All right, runners,” said the race director through his bullhorn. “We’re less than a minute away from the start. Please get ready.”

“Good luck,” Lindsey, said, squeezing my arm. “We’ll be right behind you.”

I nodded. “You, too. Keep a sharp eye.”

She winked. “The sharpest.”

Ethan joined us, retying his hair with a bit of leather cord, and we moved to the front of the pack of runners, who were stretching their hamstrings and turning at the waist to loosen up.

He smiled at me, and I pushed down a bolt of lust that speared through me—and kicked up my heart rate better than any warm-up session.

Ethan leaned forward, elbows and knees bent. “Ready, Sentinel?”

“Always,” I said with my own cocky grin. I rolled my shoulders, mirrored his stance, and prepared to move.

“Get set!”

“Dinner will be poulet à la bretonne,” Ethan said, an obvious threat that I think involved French chicken.

“Hot wings,” I countered, and Ethan shuddered.

“Go!” said the race director, and the shrill blare of an air horn filled the air.

I pulled up every ounce of strength I could manage and jumped off the line, inching out steps ahead of Ethan and trucking it down the street. Vampire strength varied. Some vamps were superstrong and superfast; others were barely stronger than humans. Fortunately, I was both. And so was Ethan.

I’d decided to make an aggressive start, to push out and try to get an early lead on him. I had to hope I could keep up the pace and wouldn’t run out of steam before the finish line.

Two blocks down the road, I realized that might have been wishful thinking. He was taller than me, with longer legs, and as strong and fast as they came. He matched my pace, sidling alongside me with determined eyes and an easy smile.

Boeuf bourguignon, Ethan silently said, activating the mental link between us.

Tater Tot casserole, I challenged. He wouldn’t beat me at that game. I was tall and trim from years of ballet and my vampire metabolism, but I knew food the way Ethan knew investments and European shoes. I could match him threat for threat without breaking a sweat.

A good thing, as the run was accomplishing that pretty well. We moved like machines, each joint and muscle moving precisely and so quickly our bodies blurred.

I couldn’t see the rest of the pack, but I could hear them behind me—the frontrunners bunched a few yards behind us, apparently content to let Ethan and me battle for the lead.

And battle we did. He wasn’t going to give me this win, or submit to a dinner of chip-laden casseroles or meats on sticks. But he hadn’t made a weak vampire; I wasn’t one to give up, either. I glanced at him, saw the sweat that beaded on his forehead, tightened my core, and moved. Even as I scanned the dark street for threats, I pushed forward.

As a pseudo member of the House’s guard corps, I trained every day, and I was pushing to inch ahead. Centimeter by centimeter, I took the lead, my blood pumping and heart pounding. Two feet, then three.

Members of the CPD perched on motorcycles blocked intersections, waving and whistling as we passed. The blocks sped by, the concrete and glass of downtown Chicago, the cafes and tourist shops. Humans lined the streets, some curious to get a look at us, and some with nastier signs that claimed our appearance signaled the end of the world. Since vampires had lived among humans since the dawn of time, the logic was disappointingly faulty.

We turned onto State, sped toward the Chicago River and then across the bascule bridge that crossed the road. Ethan was only a step behind me, probably on purpose, drifting in my wake to make his effort easier.

But I wasn’t interested in making it easier for him.

One mile passed, then two, in much the same way. My legs began to heavy and tire, but I ignored it, pressed on, pushed harder. Maybe it was wrong or childish, but I wanted to win. I loved and respected Ethan, but tonight I wanted to beat him. I wanted to blow past him at the finish, triumph in my victory, and celebrate with food so fried, battered, and processed that it was hardly recognizable.

We made our final turn onto the straightaway that led to the finish.

Eyes trained on the arch, I narrowed my gaze, using every muscle in my body to propel my feet along, faster, faster, faster.

But then I heard them, the fans screaming at the finish line. “Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!” They were cheering for him, hoping for him to win. Waiting for him to win. He was their superstar.

I wanted to beat him . . . but not nearly as much as they wanted him to win. My winning would be fun for me. His winning would be fun for all of them.

I gave myself a moment to grumble, to accept that what I wanted—to beat him well and thoroughly and make him eat midwestern casseroles until ranch dressing oozed from his pores—wasn’t anything I had to have.

I could give him this win, a victory for him and his admirers. A boost for his ego and a solidification of their fandom. Human fans weren’t something to take for granted. Although I could live without the fan fiction.

But, I thought with a grin, while I could give him the victory, I was sure as hell going to make him work for it.

And work he did. I pushed faster, increasing the pace, my feet pounding so quickly my toes went nearly numb. I heard his footsteps behind me, his fierce and labored breathing, the scent of his cologne rising from his warm and nimble body.

I waited until we were five feet away . . . then dropped back a step. That was enough.

Ethan snapped through the royal blue ribbon at the finish with me only steps behind him. The crowd erupted, cheering like the Cubs had won the pennant.

Chest heaving, Ethan glanced back at me, eyebrow arched, a grin pulling up one corner of his mouth. His body gleaming with sweat, he was quite a sight.

“I believe I won,” he said, all but beaming as he moved toward me, frantic women screaming his name. They might have been screaming—and offering to give him children and undergarments—but he kept walking toward me. In the bigger scheme of things, I had won.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Well done, Sentinel. It was a good effort.”

“I did my best,” I said, hoping my humility seemed genuine. Because inside I was reveling in the fact that I probably could have beaten him. And that was an accomplishment all its own.

“And now I get to eat fancy French food I can’t pronounce.”

“It’s never as bad as all that,” he said. “I’ll ask Margot for suggestions.”

Margot was the House’s chef. “No snails,” I said. “Or anything with more than four legs. And nothing that resembles a spider.”

“Your list is as curious as your palate,” he said, “but I’m sure she can come up with something interesting.”

“Congratulations!” said the race director, pumping our hands energetically before offering the race medals. The silver medals were shaped like the outline of Cadogan House, the ribbons wide navy blue grosgrain. I dropped my head while he placed the medal around my neck, then watched as he did the same to Ethan.

“Amazing show,” he said, but looked chagrined. “Do vampires keep records? I’d have done an official tabulation if I’d known—that was just so fast.”

“No worries,” Ethan said, glancing at the board that marked our final time. “We were fast. But there are faster vampires.”

“Well, in any event, damned impressive.” He pumped Ethan’s hand with enthusiasm. “If you decide you’d like to train, make a run at them, I’d be happy to work with you.”

“I appreciate that,” Ethan said, and the director disappeared to greet the others who’d crossed the finish line.

That’s when I felt it: the telltale tingle of metal—of a gun—moving near us.

Jace et Simon

- Tu as une tête à faire peur.
Jace cilla.
- Il me semble que ce n'est pas le bon moment pour se lancer des insultes à la figure, mais si tu insistes, je trouverai probablement quelque chose de bien senti.
- Non, je suis sérieux. Tu as une sale tête.
- Et ça vient d'un type qui a le sex-appeal d'un pingouin! Écoute, je comprends que tu sois jaloux que le bon Dieu ne t'ait pas aussi bien doté que moi, mais ce n'est pas une raison pour...

"Pendant une fraction de seconde, Clary se figea. Puis, soudain, elle saisit Jace par le devant de sa chemise et l'attira contre elle. Il l'enlaça en la soulevant presque de terre et l'embrassa. En sentant ses lèvres sur les siennes, elle eut l'impression de recevoir une décharge électrique. Elle agrippa ses bras pour se serrer contre lui, grisée par les battement frénétiques de son cœur. Aucun cœur ne battrait jamais aussi fort que celui de Jace.
Quand il desserra son étreinte, elle dut reprendre son souffle ; elle en avait presque oublié de respirer. Il prit son visage dans ses mains, et frôla ses joues u bout des doigts. Ses yeux brillaient de nouveau comme cette nuit-là au bord du lac, mais cette fois elle crut y déceler une lueur de malice.

Jace et Clary :
Du bout des doigts, il suivit le contour de son visage, comme pour s'assurer qu'elle était bien réelle.
"Tu aurais pu avoir n'importe quoi."
"Mais je ne voulais rien d'autre que toi."

"Clary l'écoutait, incapable de bouger. Son visage était si près de celui de Jace qu'elle distinguait son reflet dans ses pupilles.
_ Et maintenant je te regarde, poursuivit-il, et tu me demandes si je veux de toi ? Comme si je pouvais cesser de t'aimer ! Je n'ai jamais osé distribuer des marques d'affection autour de moi... Je l'ai un peu fait avec les Lightwood, Alec, Isabelle, mais il m'a fallu des années. Et pourtant dès que je t'ai vue, Clary, je t'ai appartenu corps et âme. C'est toujours le cas, si tu veux de moi."

Jace: "Birthdays should be special. My birthday was always the one day my father said I could do or have anything I wanted"
Clary: "Anything?" She laughed. " Like what kind of anything did you want?"
"Well, when I was five, I wanted to take a bath in spaghetti"
"But he didn't let you right?"
"No,that's the thing. He did. He said it wasn't expensive and why not if that was what I wanted? He had the servants fill a bath with boiling water and pasta, and when it cooled down..." He shrugged. "I took a bath in it."

_"Well, when I was five I wanted my mother to let me go around and around Inside the dryer with the clothes," Clary said. "The difference is, she didn't let me"

_"Probably because going around and around Inside the dryer can be fatal" Jace pointed out, "whereas pasta is rarely fatal. Unless Isabelle makes it."

" _C'est le moments ou tu vas déchirer ta chemise pour panser mes blessures ?
_Si tu voulait que je me déshabille tu n'avais qu'a le demander"

"Have you ever seen Mercy take three orders in a row without arguing?"Not being psychic and able to hear Adam's inner beast, Tad thought he had to convince Adam.
"Note even when Bran is the one giving the orders."

sa respiration se fit longue et mesurée, il ne me quittait pas des yeux. Puis il se pencha vers mon visage,se dirigeant avec une lenteur étudiée vers mon cou, frôlant ma joue avec ses cheveux. Je ne bougeait plus,pétrifiée.
_Je te suivrais jusqu'en enfer, murmura-t-il à mon oreille. Même enchaîné, je te suivrai.

"_Ca va me manquer que tu ne reagisse plus aux intrusions.Je m'amusais bien,moi!
_Ben voyons !
_Embrasse-moi, m'intima-t-il soudain.
je haussais un sourcil,suspicieuse.
_Quoi ! se justifia-t-il, terriblement amusé .Je suis bien obligé d'exprimer mes ordres a voix haute puisque tu controle tes pensées, a present. Cela dit, tresor, il existe des gens sur qui ton habilité ne sera jamais longtemps efficace, m'avertit-il en approchant dangereusement ses lèvres des miennes.
_ah oui ? comme toi par exemple ?
_C'est ca murmura-t-il contre ma bouche.

"Ouais"dis soudainement une nouvelle voix"c'est exactement ce qui me vient a l'esprit quand je pense a toi, veillard."
Je n'avais jamais pense que quelqun puisse me choquer plus qu'Abe,mais j'avais tort."Rose?"Le nom sortit de mes levres sans hesitation,meme si il ne pouvait y avoir de doute sur qui etait la nouvelle-venue.Il y avait seulement une Rose Hataway, apres tout.
"hey,Sydney," dit-elle,en me donnant un petit sourire en coin en entrant dans la piece.Ses yeux sombres brillant etaient amicaux,mais ils etaient etait aussi en train d'evaluer tote la piece,beacoup plus que ne le faisaient ceux d'Eddie.C'etait un truc de gardien.
Rose avait ma taille et etait habillée decontracté avec un jeans et un debardeur rouge. Mais, comme toujours,il y avait quelque chise d'exotique et e dangeureux dans sa beauté, ce qui la demarquée de tout les autres.Elle était comme une fleur tropical dans cette piece sombre et etouffante.Une de celles qui aurrait put vous tuer.Je n'avais jamais vu sa mere, mais c'était facile de voire que becoup de chose chez elle venait de l'influence turque d'Abe,comme c'est longs cheveux marron foncé .Dans le peu d'eclairage, ses cheveix avaient l'aire presque noirs.Ses yeux se poserent sur Keith,et elle hocha poliment la tete"Salut, l'autre Alchimiste".

Darius s'arrêta devant un vieil arbre pourri et se tint droit comme un i. D’un ton solennel, il me dit :

— Dans ta peau d'ange noir, tu as hérité de talents exceptionnels. En plus de savoir voler et d'être immortelle, tu es extrêmement rapide, d'une force incroyable, même si tu es une faible femme, me taquina-t-il, et tes sens sont aiguisés comme jamais. Tu ne t'imagines pas à quel point tu as changé, Hannah. Tu es devenue l'un des êtres les plus mythiques au monde. Tu es un vampire de l'espèce la plus noble – un ange démoniaque.

Ma bouche était encore grande ouverte. Il sourit et glissa son doigt sous ma mâchoire pour la fermer.

— Déracine cet arbre.

— Je te demande pardon ?

Il fit un mouvement de tête en direction de l'arbre.

— Déracine-le.

— Tu es cinglé ! J’en suis incapable !

— Balivernes ! Déracine-le.

— Mais enfin, tu me prends pour un tractopelle ?

— Pousse-le ! Tu n'as jamais vu de films fantastiques ?

Son regard était rieur au possible.

— Euh… si.

— Et bien, dis-toi que c'est pareil !

Sans trop réfléchir, je me plaçai en face de l'arbre et déposai mes deux paumes sur le tronc. Je pris ma respiration et poussai. Je crachai un cri de surprise et reculai en faisant un bond énorme lorsque j'entendis les racines craquer sous mes pieds.

— Nom d'un chien !

— Génial, hein ?

— Effrayant, oui !

Darius reprit son sérieux.

— Et ta force va se décupler au fur et à mesure que tu grandiras. Là, tu pousses un arbre desséché, mais dans quelque temps, tu déracineras sans mal un bouleau dans la force de l'âge. Tu n'imagines pas tout ce que tu seras capable de réaliser… Tu seras de plus en plus rapide, de plus en plus habile, tu seras effrayante de perfection. Encore plus que tu ne l’es déjà, petite fille. (Il sourit) Il ne te faudra pas beaucoup de temps pour ça, crois-moi.

— Mais je ne serai jamais plus forte qu'un loup-garou…, pensai-je à voix haute.

Il hésita avant de répondre.

— Non, pas plus forte qu'un mâle. Qu'une femelle peut-être, mais il faut des années d'expérience pour ça. Minah était encore trop jeune et…

— Ok. Je ne veux plus parler de ça !

— Mais c'est toi qui…

Penser à Minah me faisait penser à Leith et je ne voulais pas penser à Leith ! Pourquoi ? Parce que les loups-garous sont les ennemis des vampires et je ne voulais pas me dire que j'étais devenue l'ennemie de Leith.

— J'aimerais marcher, maintenant. C'est possible ?

Décontenancé, mais patient, Darius me fit signe de le suivre sur un sentier qui menait en contrebas de la falaise. La pente était abrupte. En temps ordinaire, je serais tombée quinze fois, j'aurais peut-être même roulé jusqu'en bas. Mais maintenant, j'étais aussi agile qu'un chamois et parfois, j'avais l'étrange impression que mes pieds ne touchaient pas le sol tellement je me sentais légère dans mon corps.

Nous arrivâmes sur une petite crique de galets couleur acier.

— J'imagine que tu dois avoir beaucoup de questions à me poser ? demanda Darius.

— Oui.

— On s'assoit ?

Il me montra une série de rochers plats qui s'érigeaient hors de l'eau. La mer était calme et la roche complètement sèche, nous nous assîmes en silence.

Comme l'aurait fait n'importe quelle humaine, je retirai mes chaussures et glissai mes pieds dans l'eau. La mer du Nord était toujours glaciale, même l'été. Je m'attendais à pousser un cri de stupeur à cause du froid, mais ce fut tout le contraire...

— Ooooh ! Elle est… chaude !

Darius sourit.

— Non, elle ne l'est pas. C'est toi qui la ressens ainsi.

— Parce que j'ai le sang froid ?

Il acquiesça et je plongeai un moment dans le silence pour réfléchir à ce que j’allais lui demander.

— Dans combien de temps puis-je espérer revenir à la vie normale ?

— Tout dépend de ton aptitude à t'adapter, mais je dirais plusieurs semaines. Si tu le souhaites, tu pourras reprendre tes cours à la rentrée.

— Vraiment ?

— Oui, Hannah. Mais il va falloir que tu apprennes à ne pas désirer boire de sang humain, tout du moins, à résister.

Boire du sang humain ? Mais pour qui me prenait-il ?

— Ne fais pas cette tête, Hannah. Tu en auras envie, et plus tôt que tu ne le crois.

Je secouai énergiquement le menton.

— Tu te souviens d'il y a trois jours, lorsque tu t’es abreuvée au blaireau ?

— Non.

L'idée me fit frissonner de dégoût.

— Eh bien, tu en as bu.

— J’étais en transe ?

Il me toisa avec attention.

— Oui. Tu te souviens que tu as entendu Leith me parler ? s’assura-t-il prudemment.

Tristement, je hochai la tête. Un truc pareil ça ne s'oublie pas. J'ai cru mourir, à ce moment-là.

— Bien… Généralement, lorsqu'un jeune vampire goûte au sang animal pour la première fois, et c'est encore plus fort lorsqu'il s'agit de sang humain, son corps est très vite en manque. Ça ne tardera pas à t’arriver.

— Et si ce n’est pas le cas, c'est grave ?

— Non. Ça arrive parfois, chez les gens comme toi.

— Les gens comme moi ?

— Ceux transformés contre leur volonté. Mais tôt ou tard, ils y viennent. Pas le choix, Hannah, c’est ça ou… Hannah, tout va bien ?

Non, ça n'allait pas du tout. Un malaise me prenait. J'avais chaud et j’avais comme un sentiment d’oppression.

Que m'arrivait-il ? Une odeur capiteuse emplissait mes narines et me grisait totalement. Je sentais mes jambes fourmiller d'excitation et mon cœur s'accélérer sous le coup de l'adrénaline. Mais que…

Je sautai sur mes pieds. Darius m'imita prestement et me retint le bras. Je le repoussai avec violence.

Mon regard se vrilla vers la mer qu'on ne voyait presque pas à cause du brouillard.

J'avais envie de plonger dans l'eau. L'odeur venait de par là, au loin… il fallait que j'y aille. Je fis un bond en avant, coupée dans mon élan par Darius.

— Hannah, ça suffit !

Je tournai la tête vers lui et le fusillai du regard.

Je ne me contrôlais plus.

— L’odeur ! Cette odeur ! Je… Lâche-moi !

Darius attrapa mes deux bras et les colla brutalement derrière mon dos. Il me serra contre lui et m'empêcha de bouger. Je hurlais de rage, je grognais, parce qu’il était bien plus fort que moi. Il appuya sa main sur mon front et me tint la tête en arrière, tout contre lui, ce qui créa aussitôt en moi une rage sauvage. J’étais incapable de crier, l’envie presque vitale créant un bourdonnement infernal dans mes tempes et coupant tous mes moyens.

Je secouai la tête en tous sens pour tenter de neutraliser le mal de crâne épouvantable qui me terrassait et tombai à genoux.

— Chut… chut. Calme-toi, Hannah, susurra Darius en s’agenouillant, ça va passer. L'odeur va passer. Ne respire plus.

Il me tourna brusquement face à lui et prit mon visage dans ses mains.

— Regarde-moi, concentre-toi sur moi, sur mes yeux, sur ma voix. Chut… Tout va bien…

Un bref moment, je crus que ça allait mieux, parce que l'odeur s'était effectivement évaporée. Mais au lieu de me calmer, son absence me rendit folle de rage. J'essayai de me dégager avec puissance de l'étreinte de Darius. Il était trop fort, beaucoup trop pour moi. Alors, mes lèvres s'ourlèrent sur deux canines saillantes et, sans même savoir ce que je faisais, je les plantais avec rage dans son cou.

Darius ne bougea pas, il me laissa boire à grandes lampées, tandis que son sang courait dans le fond de ma bouche, le long de mon œsophage… Je me calmai quand il susurra mon prénom en caressant mes cheveux. Il repoussa alors doucement ma tête.

— C’est fini, chuchota-t-il.

J'ouvris la bouche et me reculai avec dégoût pour fixer les trous béants que j'avais laissés sur sa gorge. Ils disparurent presque aussitôt, laissant la peau de Darius intacte.

Le souffle court, la tête douloureuse, j'accrochai ses yeux. Ses iris étaient comme de l’argent liquide.

Du pouce, il retira les quelques gouttes de son sang qui perlaient sur mon menton.

— Même pendant la chasse, tu es divinement belle, argua-t-il. Tu vas être un prédateur redoutable, Hannah. Un vampire plus jeune que moi se serait laissé vider de son sang.

En respirant, il eut comme un spasme.

— Mon Dieu, tu es bien plus dangereuse que ce que j'aurais pu imaginer. »